


IPAMIS OL OLPRIT

by emmbrancsxx0



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Dean, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Hurt Castiel, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, John's back and he's still the worst, Kinda?, M/M, POV Castiel, POV Dean Winchester, Season/Series 14, Top Castiel, Top Dean, but i'm proud of the lil bub, dean's got a lot of shit to work through, he does love his sons and wants them to be happy, he was already dead so does it count?, i'm usually all aboard the bottom dean train, let him put it down, references to michael!dean, that boy just carries so much, they switch in this don't ask me why, this fic was written as catharsis for all the crap he's gone through, this user will never apologize for john but believes at the end of the day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-13 19:33:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 56,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15371784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmbrancsxx0/pseuds/emmbrancsxx0
Summary: The Winchesters, Castiel, and Jack discover the Men of Letters hid away a weapon that may be able to kill Michael. The only problem: it can only be used with John Winchester's blood. When Rowena performs a spell to temporarily bring John back, Dean runs into another problem. His father doesn't approve of his angel, and Castiel isn't too impressed with John either.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first multi-chapter Deancas fic that I'm posting on here so please go easy on my very fragile soul. And feel free to drop by [on tumblr](http://dochollidayed.tumblr.com/) and say howdy.

They were supposed to be watching a movie. At least, that had been the plan. But Dean should have known by now that things hardly ever went to plan when it came to him and Castiel. 

He knew they’d put a movie on, could hear the swell of music and the low mutterings of dialogue, but they were all indistinct to his ears, and he couldn’t even remember what was playing on screen. Instead, they sat on the floor in front of the two armchairs in the Dean Cave, practically in each other’s laps as their lips pushed and pulled on one another. Their legs were tangled, folded between each other, and Dean’s knees bent and slackened every time Cas shifted. One of Dean’s palms was cradling Cas’ jaw, feeling the muscle and bone tense and relax and move as his mouth worked, feeling the prickly day old stubble on his neck; his other was on Cas’ hip, holding him in close.

As for Castiel’s hands—they were, well, everywhere, fevered and reverent in their touch. One second, there were long fingers twisting in Dean’s hair, the next they were petting his cheeks. They gripped his shoulders and smoothed down his chest. They circled around to his back and ran slowly down his spine. They slid up and down his thigh and tapped some frequency unheard by human ears into the side of his ribs. Cas liked to explore, Dean had come to realize. He liked to chart out a map on Dean’s skin with his lips and to connect the dots of his freckles with his fingertips. He liked to seek out and claim and conquer. He was like the friggin’ Energizer Bunny. In the beginning, when this was still new, Dean had to tell him to slow down on more than one occasion. Sometimes, he still had to.

Because this was _still_ new. Mostly. It had been going on for a little over three months—since Dean had gotten back. Since they got him back. Since Michael was gone.

Not gone. Not really. He was still out there, and he was still their most recent world-ending issue. Without another archangel to go three rounds with him, they’d been searching with little avail for a way to stop him. So far, they had squat. Michael, on the other hand, had a whole pack of newly minted angels fighting for him and a cult of poor human saps cropping up in the rural areas of the world, claiming they’d seen god. His followers had no clue he’d be their downfall once he got his army at full strength.

Meanwhile, clusters of angels had been popping up overnight in certain areas of the country. Places like Baton Rouge, Salt Lake City, San Diego. They’d spread out, gone to each place hoping to find out why Michael thought they were so important. Mary and Jack had gone all the way to Buffalo, while Sam and Bobby took El Paso. Dean and Castiel had just gotten back from Kansas City. They poked around for days, following the angels’ trails and looking for anything suspicious or supernatural, before deciding the town was as much of a bust as the last six. Either Michael was really good at covering his tracks, or he was sending them on a wild goose chase.

Neither thought comforted Dean any, and not knowing Michael’s big plan was starting to get frustrating.

But right that second, he was a different kind of frustrated, and that was thanks to a totally different angel.

Castiel slid his hand all the way up Dean’s leg, his knuckles grazing a-little-too-close-not-close-enough to where Dean wanted them to. He let out a low rumble from somewhere into his throat before leaning backwards. Cas chased his lips, trying to regain them, and Dean just narrowly managed to avoid them.

“Ya know, Cas, I think we still have some of that peppermint oil we used for that memory spell,” Dean told him, wiggling his eyes suggestively. “We could make this afternoon a lot more interesting.”

He figured they had at least a couple more hours before anyone else got back to the bunker. It wasn’t often they had the place to themselves. Actually, it _never_ happened. Might as well make good use of it.

Castiel brought his gaze downward, a little coy despite the faintest of smiles tugging at the corners of his lips. His very pink, swollen, glistening lips. His chin and cheeks were flushed where Dean’s stubble had scratched it, and his hair was even messier than usual. If he glanced up, Dean was willing to bet he’d seen more black than blue in his eyes. He liked seeing Cas like this: tanned skin pocked with goose bumps and stained with red marks, body sighing and tensing. Dean liked that he was the only one who could see Cas like this, and the liked that he was the one to cause it.

“We should,” Castiel started, his voice more of a growl than usual and, god, Dean liked that, too. “We should be continuing our search, Dean. We should put our energies to good use.”

Dean quirked a brow, teasing. “You don’t think we’re using our _energies_ just fine?”

Cas’ eyes swept up to meet his, and yeah—just as Dean thought. Two black holes swallowed him up, their rims outlined by perfect circles of blue light.

“I think we’re using them just fine,” Dean resolved, leaning back in. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel protested, but it was half-hearted and didn’t last long. “Dean,” he said again, in a much different tone, as Dean mouthed down his throat. Dean palmed Cas’ coat off his shoulders, only managing to get it half-off before Castiel took him by the cheeks and leaned back onto the floor, dragging Dean on top of him.

Dean situated himself between Cas’ knees, relishing all the soft, warm planes and hard, angular dips and rises of the body beneath him. He rubbed his palm down Cas’ side to settle on his waist, and Cas was emitting harsh sounds that caused a flood in Dean’s abdomen. It made him press his hips down further in desperate need for contact. Cas made a louder sound and deepened the kiss so Dean could feel it, hot and wet, slide on his tongue. 

And then there was the unmistakable boom of the bunker’s door opening and slamming shut. There were footsteps jostling and echoing down the grated metal stairs. “Hey, I’m back! Anybody home?” Sam’s voice called out to the high ceilings and empty granite corridors. 

Dean lifted himself up fractionally off Cas, his entire body tensing in annoyance and slackening in defeat. “Damn it,” he breathed, hanging his head at the injustice of it all, low enough for his nose to brush against the inside of Cas’ neck. 

When he looked up again, Cas was smiling gently in an appeasing, but almost amused, kind of way. He brought his hand up and cupped the back of Dean’s head. “It was nice while it lasted.” 

“Hello?” Sam called again, and for a minute Dean considered letting him think no one was home. Maybe he’d go to his room for the night. And put some noise cancelling headphones on. And listen to some very loud music.

With a sigh, Dean reluctantly shouted back, “Yeah! Be out in a sec!” Then he brought his attention back to Cas and dropped his voice. “We’ll pick this up later.”

“Of course,” Cas told him, accepting a quick peck on the lips that turned into another, and another, and a contented hum, and Dean got to his feet before he lost control of himself. He reached out a hand to help Cas up, too, and the two of them did their best to straighten themselves out. Dean pulled on the ends of his shirt, even though the wrinkles bounced back the second he released it, and ran his hands through his hair. Cas righted his coat back on his shoulder and tucked the tails of his shirt back into his belt—and, honestly, Dean didn’t even remember pulling them out. Dean fixed Cas’ tie for him before giving an aborted chuckle at the state of themselves.

“Eh, good enough,” he decided, giving Cas’ chest a pat of finality before turning to the door. Cas trailed after him to the library, where Sam was unpacking some weapons from his duffle on the table. 

When they appeared in the room, Sam gave them both a quick once-over, his eyes flickering up and down, and his eyebrows moved up to his hairline in humor.

“Hey,” Dean said, clearing his throat into his fist, before Sam could comment on anything embarrassing. “You and Bobby find anything?”

“Yeah, squat,” was the answer. Sam looked a little tanner thanks to the south Texas sun, and a lot tired. Dean didn’t know if that was thanks to the long drive or to agitation of another dead end. “You?”

“Ditto.” 

Sam sighed heavily and ran his palm down his face. It left his eyes a little bloodshot. “I don’t get it, man. Why these towns? Why now? There’s no rhyme or reason to it, but the angels just keep flocking to them.”

Dean’s eyes flashed to the war room behind Sam, the steady lights on the map where the angels were gathering catching his gaze. More and more lights had been blinking on in the past few weeks. He didn’t like it. Every time he saw a new one, his stomach sloshed.

“I mean, what’s the plan?” Sam posed, perching on the corner of one of the tables and tossing his hands up in question, only for them to slap loosely back down on the thighs of his jeans.

Dean lifted one shoulder. He hooked his boot around the leg of the nearest chair and pulled it out, sitting heavily into it. “Bobby thinks they’re guarding something.”

“Yeah, but guarding _what_?” Sam brought his attention to Cas. “Still nothing on Angel Radio?”

Cas shook his head guiltily, as if it were his fault that it had been nothing but white noise for months. Michael must have been jamming his system somehow. “No.”

“And you don’t think the other angels, the original ones, are gonna help?” 

Cas drew in breath to speak, but Dean already knew what he was going to say, and he didn’t want to hear it. “No,” he said, beating Cas to the punch. “They already got what the wanted—more angels. And we’re trying to kill the only guy who can make more of them. Why would they wanna help us?”

“They don’t want the world to end anymore than we do. I believe there are still those loyal to Naomi. They may be able to help us,” Cas said, and Dean tensed a little at the mention of Naomi. “It’s worth trying.”

“Yeah, or not. Whatever, we don’t need that bitch’s help anyway,” Dean said with more anger in his voice than he’d intended. His gaze was hard, too, when it latch onto Cas’, but Cas didn’t argue further. At least, not at the moment. Dean was sure he wouldn’t drop it forever.

“Well, we need _somebody’s_ help, Dean. We’re kinda low on options here,” said Sam, breaking Dean and Cas’ staring competition. “Jack’s still not up to full strength after what happened with Lucifer, and we don’t have any other way to stop Michael.”

 _Michael_. That was another name Dean tensed at when it was said out loud. Actually, it was more like a flinch, but he was getting better at controlling it.

But Sam must have seen it that time. He exhaled for a long time through his nose, and his lips pulled into a thin line. His eyes softened as he considered Dean. “You still haven’t remembered anything, have you? About, you know, what his plan is?”

Dean looked down to his shoes and shook his head. They’d tried everything to get him to remember—memory spells, hypnosis; Sam even suggested he eat more blueberries, like that was ever gonna happen. He didn’t remember much about his time with Michael, just bits and pieces. Flashes of scenery and color, bright lights and sounds, snippets of conversation. He remembered his hands bloodied and cut up one second and healed the next. He remembered Michael’s voice in his head telling him to sleep, telling him to look away, to retreat back into the little beach-vacation world he’d locked Dean in. He remembered thinking it more like a prison, and banging his fists against the walls, ticking off the days in Roman Numerals on the concrete until he lost all sense of time. 

He remembered screaming out to Sam. He remembered praying to Cas.

And then he remembered waking up in the bunker.

He knew there was more. He just had to piece it all together. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“Not really,” he told Sam, choosing to get defensive instead of scared. Choosing not to let it make him feel useless. “It’s not like he let me see much.”

“No, I know,” Sam said, a little too sympathetically. “But you said so yourself, you’re the best lead we’ve got. And I think . . .” He sighed again, looking like he didn’t want to say what he was thinking. He rephrased his words, making them easier to swallow, “I called up Rowena after I dropped off Bobby. She thinks she can help you remember. She can be here by tomorrow afternoon.”

It felt like something cold had dropped down his back, and was slowly inching down his spine. It made him short of breath, but he tried not to show it.

“Sam—,” Cas said, his voice half-righteous, half-pleading. 

“I know. I don’t like it, either.” 

“No, it’s—,” Dean said, cutting them both off. He knew Rowena wasn’t on her way yet. He knew this was his choice to make, and he’d be damned if he was going to deny them their best shot at finding out Michael’s plan because he was chicken shit. “It’s okay. I’ll do it.”

He could feel Cas’ eyes on him, big and sad, like he could the day he said yes to Michael. Sam was giving him that empathetic gaze again.

“You sure?”

Dean rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He just wanted to get this over with so they could move on to stage two—whatever that was—of stopping yet another apocalypse. “Yes, Sam, I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Sam said, not seeming relieved in the slightest. “Okay, I’ll give her call and let her know.” 

There was a beat where no one did anything, and Dean was sick of that—nothing. He slapped his hand on the table and stood up. “Alright, well, Mom and Jack’ll be home any minute, so I’m gonna get dinner started.”

Sam shared a quick look with Cas over Dean’s shoulder, conveying the same silent conversation the two of them always had when they did that: _worry_. But Dean was suddenly too weary to comment on it, and Sam recovered quickly. “Okay,” he said again.

“Okay,” Dean repeated, for lack of anything else. He started towards the kitchen, moving past Cas and clapping him on the shoulder as he did, letting his hand linger a little too long. The touch grounded him, reminding him he was still in his body, and his choices on what to do with it were his own.

 

///

 

Dean wasn't any more comfortable with the idea of remembering his time as Michael's pack-mule in the morning.  He spent most of the night trying not to toss and turn, pretending to sleep as Cas sat besides him in bed watching his latest Netflix recommendations with headphones in.  He watched the rainbow of lights flash against the wall until he finally drifted off at about 4AM.

But at least that had given him time to get used to the idea, which meant he was a lot better at stowing his crap and feigning confidence. Fake it 'til you make it, right? 

"Rowena called ahead about what she'll need for the spell," Sam said later that afternoon, about an hour before Rowena showed up.  He'd come into the library with a stone mortar and herbs piled inside.

Dean had been busy at his laptop, searching the most recent town with angel activity in hopes of finding a clue that would render this whole _Momento_ replay unnecessary.  No such luck so far.

"What, now she's got you running her errands?"

He took at sip the whiskey resting at his elbow, and didn't miss the sour look Cas tossed his way.  According to him, it was still too early for a drink.  According to Dean, it was time for a lot more than that, but he limited himself to one so he didn't have to hear the argument.

Sam snorted as he started to lay things out on the table.  "Yeah, she wishes."

Dean closed the laptop (there wasn't anything useful on it anyway), and smirked at Cas, and then at Sam.  "I bet she does," he teased, but no one else seemed to get the joke.  "You and Rowena are gettin' a little cozy, huh, Sammy?”

Sam gave another derisive laugh, this one more awkward.  "What?  Dude, no."

 _Duh_ , Dean almost said, but ragging on Sam was better than thinking about the real reason Rowena was gracing them with her presence.  "I dunno, Sam.  Don't you think she's a little old for you?" 

Sam pursed his lips in annoyance before nodding in Cas’ general direction.  "You should talk." 

"Yeah, well, I'd say I like 'em with experience, but," he grinned at Cas, who looked as clueless as ever when it came to conversations like these, "guess you don't have much of that." 

Cas titled his head just left of center.  "I haven't heard you complaining—unless I've been misunderstanding your shouts."

"You have not been."

Sam made a disgusted sound, pulling a face.  "Guys.  C'mon.  How many times?  I'm right here." 

Dean raised his eyebrows suggestively, and the corners of Cas' mouth quirked slightly upwards in the only indication he'd ever give that he was enjoying Sam's misery, too. 

"What's the matter?" Mary's voice came from the hall as she entered the room.  She must have just caught the tail end of the conversation, because her eyes were bright and curious instead of scolding.

"Thank god," Sam muttered under his breath, glad the previous topic would be dropped now that their mother was present.

"Nothing," Dean told her.  "How was target practice?"

Mary shrugged, sitting down gently on the corner of the table.  This close, Dean could still smell the gunpowder and smoke on her clothes.  "I came, I saw, I kicked some paper-silhouette ass." 

"And Jack?" Cas asked, concern lining his tone.  He was never in love with the idea of Jack shooting guns, but the kid needed a way to defend himself until his powers built back up.

Mary's smile faltered slightly.  "Getting better," she said.  "He's still down there practicing.  Oh, don't worry, just with air pellets.  But he got in the lines today, so that's good."

Castiel looked a little proud, if not still worried.  Dean mostly just felt warm imagining the grin on Jack's face when he finally hit his mark, even if only vaguely.

"We missed you down there today," Mary then said to Cas, who at once looked sheepish. 

"Apologies," he said.  "I wanted to stay up here in case I was—," he flashed Dean a look, trying to be sneaky about it, "needed."

Dean sighed, almost barking, _you weren't_.  He bit it down.  Cas had basically been attached to Dean's hip since he woke up that morning.  It didn't do anything to help Dean's nerves.  He didn't want to be coddled.  He just needed a second to himself.  "I told you, you couldda gone if you wanted."

Which probably wasn’t the best way to word that.  Castiel never wanted to go to target practice.  He only did for Jack's sake.

Cas stayed quiet, but his eyes stayed on Dean until Sam broke the silence.

"Hey, uh, Cas," he said, his eyes sliding off of Dean.  "There's still a few ingredients I need from downstairs.  Wanna give me a hand?"

Cas seemed a little hesitant, but he must have reasoned Dean wouldn't have a mental breakdown if he left his side for a few minutes.  He nodded and stood up, following Sam out of the room.  Dean let out a breath, silently thanking god for his little brother before he remembered to put a cap on it because there actually was someone who could hear his prayers in the bunker.

Mary chuckled a little at him.  "He's just worried about you, Dean.  We all are."

"I'm fine," he insisted, but she seemed unconvinced.  "I'm _fine_!" 

"I know, honey," she sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder and pressing her lips to his hairline before leaving the room, too.

Dean watched her go, and lasted a whole six seconds before having a mental breakdown and opening the laptop again, just to having something to do.

 

///

 

If there were any windows in the bunker's library, they would have only seen a sliver of orange light left on the horizon by the time Rowena arrived.  Castiel felt the sunset in the way the molecules in the air loosened and cooled, and Rowena's hair when he answered the door was an assault of the same fiery color he might have seen over the planes of Kansas.

"Well, well, Castiel, just as handsome as ever, I see," she said in ways of a greeting, her brogue like an explosion in the dark entranceway.

Castiel squinted at her, and at the large velvet bag clutched between her hands, trying to suss out some clue as to how to respond to that.  It was unfamiliar territory, as everything always was with her.  She seemed incapable of sticking to the standard greeting that Castiel was comfortable with.

"Um, yes," he said, trying to find his way back to the conventional.  "Hello, Rowena."

"It's about damn time," Dean's voice barked out from downstairs.  Castiel looked over his shoulder to find him, Sam, Mary, and Jack filtering into the war room. 

Rowena didn't wait to be invited in.  She squeezed past Castiel and moved down the stairs, her heels clacking against the grating.  Castiel followed after her.  "Hello to you, too, Dean.  Sam.  Oh, and look, the gang's all here, aren't they?"  She smiled a little too fondly when she was in arm's length of Jack.  "My dear boy, always a pleasure!"  She reached up and pinched his cheek affectionately, making a childlike grin bloom on his face.  There was a light in his eyes long after she turned her attention to the others. 

"So, we got it all set up," Sam told her, getting right down to business.  "We had everything on the list you texted me, except—uh—lavender water.  I mean, we have lavender." 

"Yeah, and we have water," Dean supplied unnecessarily.

Rowena held up her hand.  "The lavender water isn't strictly necessary.  It just adds a little flavor, so that the potion isn’t as foul as the River Thames post-Industrial Revolution, but no matter."  She looked pointedly at Dean, her expression suggesting she was enjoying herself quite a bit.  "Hope you enjoy the taste of week old sewage."

Dean pulled a repulsed face.

"Shall we?"  She took off her coat and started into the library, where an assortment of herbs and roots were laid out on the table next to a mixing bowl.  Without preamble, she got to work refining the potion.

"And you're sure this is safe?" Mary asked halfway into the process, right around the time the liquid in the bowl turned a radioactive shade of neon green. 

Rowena glanced up through her eyelashes, seeming as though she didn't appreciate the question.  "It'll work." 

"Yeah, but he's not—He won't get stuck in his own memory or anything, right?"

Dean's eyes went as big as saucers from his chair at the end of the table.  "Wait, is that a thing?"

Mary shrugged, suddenly sheepish for causing her son to worry.  "It could be." 

"It's not—it's not a thing," Sam tried, as if he could make it so by sheer power of will.

Castiel had never heard of anyone getting stuck in a memory, but then again, no one had ever tried to access the memory of an archangel's vessel.  The turn of the earth towards nighttime was suddenly too swift beneath his feet.  "Rowena?" he demanded.

She sighed, put upon.  "No.  It's not, as you say, a thing.  He may not like what he sees, but he'll be just fine."

The tension in the room seemed to drop significantly, just in time for Rowena to speak an incantation into the bowl.  She scooped a good portion of the mixture into a vial.  Its color had turned into an earthy green.  She proffered it to Dean.  "You might want to stay seated, dear.  It works quickly." 

"Great," Dean gritted out through his teeth, and snatched the vial out of her hands.  He stared down at it for a few seconds as if contemplating the best way to attack it.  And then, seemingly rallying himself, he said, "Bottoms up," and knocked it back in one go.

Castiel's stomach lurched at the exact moment the glass touched Dean's lips, but he forced calm. 

Dean groaned in disgust and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.  There was water in his eyes.  "Ugh, the aftertaste's even worse."  He looked up, facing the crowd that was all staring at him intently.  For a long time, nothing happened.  Just long enough for Castiel to doubt that it wasn't effective.

"Are you sure that lavender water wasn't important to the—?"  Dean doubled over, both hands flying upwards to cradle his head as he cried out.  It was a jolt to Castiel's system.  He and Sam both surged forward, but Dean held out his arm to stop them. 

Castiel gritted his teeth.  It took all his will to stay where he was.

A long, low groan spread out through the room, drifting over the floors like mist and climbing up the walls.  Dean clutched his head tighter, fingers going red and white on his hair.

Castiel ripped his eyes away to clock Sam and Mary's expressions.  They'd gone pale, both focusing hard on Dean. 

"Dean, take control," Rowena urged.  "Whatever you're seeing, fight it.  Find the memory you're looking for."

If Dean heard her, he made no sign of it.  He yelled again, sinking further until his head was almost between his knees.  Castiel's fingers twitched towards him.  He curled them into fists and squeezed hard.

It didn't last much longer after that before Dean went still.  And suddenly the bunker seemed too silent, the distant whirl of machinery the only source of sound.  He couldn't even hear Dean breathing.

"Dean?" Sam asked, his voice thick and small, as he took a hesitant step forward. 

Abruptly, Dean took in a sharp, loud inhale and sat upright in his chair.  His eyes were bloodshot and empty, staring blankly forward.  Sam rushed to him, falling in front of him and putting both hands on either of Dean's shoulders.  He frantically checked his brother for any physical wounds.  "Dean?"

" _IPAMIS OL OLPRIT_ ," Dean whispered.  Castiel blinked.  A far-off memory of birthing stars and fish climbing out of the water flashed through his mind.

Sam's brow pulled together.  "What?"

Dean only repeated the words.

"Is he—?" Mary began the words dying in her throat. 

"What does that mean?" Jack asked. 

"Why does that sound so familiar?" Sam breathed, his eyes never leaving Dean's face.

The only thing that attracted his gaze, and that of everyone else, was Castiel saying, "It's a weapon.  Or, it's supposed to be.  I thought it was just a myth."

"What kind of weapon?" Mary asked.

Castiel wasn't certain how to answer.  What was she expecting?  A sword?  A gun?  He'd never seen it before.  In fact, he'd discounted its existence entirely before that moment.  Most angels did.

"Before Heaven and the angels, before Creation, God was said to have forged it.  It's said to be the most powerful weapon ever conceived."

"Michael's looking for it," Dean said, finally blinking.  Some of the focus was returning to the green in his eyes.  "That's what the angels are doing.  They're trying to find it." 

Castiel wondered why Michael was honing his efforts to Earth.  Or did he have his angels scattered throughout the cosmos, searching for the weapon?  It seemed unlikely.  They hadn't heard of any angel clusters outside of North America.

"For what?" said Jack, the human part of his nature taking over in that moment.  He could not imagine the damage the weapon could cause in the hands of Heaven's most terrifying soldier.  Whatever images Castiel's mind conjured up probably weren't remotely close, either.

"I don't know," he admitted.  "But the  _IPAMIS OL OLPRIT_ could be the end of everything—of life, of light."  That's what it meant in humans words, after all.  _The end of light._ But light was much more than its human meaning, much more than any human could comprehend.  "With it, Michael could bring the world to its knees."

A muscle in Sam's jaw jumped as he tensed it.  "Okay," he said, voice hard with resolve.  He spoke like it was simple, easy, when surely he must have known it wouldn't be: "So, we find it first."

 

///

 

When Castiel got to Dean’s bedroom later that night, he paused outside the door, listening carefully to ensure he wasn’t intruding on a private moment. It seemed strange to do; usually, he barged right into the room without any thought to what Dean was doing. But today was different, quieter now. Dean was quiet, too, on the other side of the door. Castiel only heard his boots scratching softly and occasionally against the floor, and the steady murmur of his heartbeat.

He pushed the door open slowly, peeking his head inside. “Dean?” 

Dean was sitting on the side of the bed, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, the meat of his palms digging into his eyes. When he heard the door creak, he quickly righted himself, but his shoulders dropped when he realized it was Castiel.

“Hey,” he said, voice weary and somber, as Castiel walked in fully and closed the door behind him.

He got a good look at Dean, squinting his eyes at the soul shining within. It was just as bright as ever, just as blinding and beautiful, with deep hues of greens and blues and light pastels. It was ever-shifting, creating a new and fascinating work of art with every passing moment; and Castiel thought he could watch it forever. He blinked, letting the light dwindle to his eyes so he could better see Dean’s physical shape—no less pleasing, no less beautiful.

“How are you?” he asked, half-expecting Dean to brush him off.

“I dunno, Cas,” he said instead, and pulled at his mouth. “It’s a lot to process.”

“I know.” Castiel got into bed behind Dean and leaned into him, hooking his chin on Dean’s shoulder. Dean tipped his head slightly to press against Castiel’s. “Many times, an angel’s memories aren’t meant for humans. They can be—,” he tried to place the correct word, but there wasn’t one so he decided on, “overwhelming.”

“You’re telling me.” And then, “But it’s not that. It’s—you know, the stuff he did. The stuff _I_ did.”

Castiel shifted again to meet Dean’s eyes. “It wasn’t you.”

There was something lost and vulnerable on Dean’s face, something Castiel had only seen a handful of times. He still wasn’t certain what to do with it. “Feels like me.” He looked down at his hands like they were weapons, so Castiel took them in his own. He felt only warmth.

He wished he could express how wrong Dean was. He wished he could make Dean understand that he wasn’t the monster he saw himself as—that he was good, and full of light, and holy. That he was the best thing Castiel could hold in his hands.

But human words were limited, so he said, “It wasn’t.”

“ _MONONS MALPRIG_ ,” he added, because human words were limited. He wasn’t certain of the literal translation into a language Dean could understand. _My fire_ , was the closest he could get to it the first time Dean had asked him what it meant. It meant more than that in Enochian, more than Dean could possibly know. _My heart_. Castiel did not have one of his own. He’d only found one to borrow when he found Dean.

“My heart,” Dean said back, and kissed him.

They didn’t say much after that. Dean went to the sink to brush his teeth and Castiel stripped down to his boxers and put on one of Dean’s old t-shirts that he was most fond of. He didn’t sleep, and he didn’t need to change, but Dean said his coat and suit were rough and starchy, and he didn’t like rubbing against that at night. And so, Castiel hung up his suit each night and put it in Dean’s closet before crawling under the covers with him.

That night, Dean folded himself into Castiel’s chest and held his palms flat against his shoulder blades, just shy of his broken wings. Castiel wrapped arms around Dean to keep him close and rested his chin on top of Dean’s hair. He didn’t watch a movie or read a book that night. He contented himself to the sounds of Dean breathing gently in sleep.

 

///

 

The next morning, while Dean was cooking breakfast and Castiel was making coffee, Sam came bounding into the kitchen with a manila folder brandished in one hand. “You guys, I think I found something,” he said, eyes wild. It looked like he hadn’t slept much the night before.

Dean glanced up from the eggs he was pushing around the skillet, voice casual, but shoulders much too tight, Castiel noticed. “Okay. What’s that?”

“Oh, you know, just the location of the _IPAMIS OL OLPRIT_.”

That got their attention. Castiel and Dean shared a look before turning back to Sam.

“Where?” Castiel asked.

Sam didn’t answer right away. Instead, he said, “C’mon, everybody’s in the library. I’ll tell you there.” With that, he ran off again.

Dean shut off the burner on the stove and pushed the skillet away from the heat. He and Castiel went to the library, where Mary, Jack, and Rowena were sitting behind a stack of books that Sam must have gone through earlier. Sam was pacing a small length in front of the table, hands on his hips, but he perked up a little when Dean and Castiel made their entrance.

“Okay, so I was up last night trying to find any info on this weapon, right?” he said, diving right into it. “Turns out, it’s a Hand of God.”

Rowena let out a frustrated sound. “Oh, perfect. Those again!” 

“Hand of God?” Mary asked, looking at everyone in question. 

“They’re ancient artifacts touched by my father,” Castiel explained. “They’re endued with some of his power. Many of them were destroyed in the Great Flood.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Except, according to the lore, this one survived. It can still only be used once, but besides that, it’s different from all the others, and way more powerful. Apparently, it was the first Hand that God ever made. It doesn’t just kill things, it’s supposed to be able to heal anything, too— _and_ it’s said to be the only one that can be used by a human without them exploding into a million pieces.”

Castiel let that sink in, his eyes turning to the ceiling as he processed. If it was created with the ability for a human to wield it, it must have meant God intended it for a specific purpose.

Jack must have been thinking the same thing, because he asked, “Is it powerful enough to kill an archangel? Like Michael?”

The corner of Sam’s mouth quirked into an excited smile. “Yeah. Yeah, looks like.”

“You said you knew where it was?” Dean asked, like he didn’t know whether to be hopeful or wary.

“Not exactly,” Sam said. He straightened out and picked up the file folder again. “But Grandpa did.”

Dean turned his face slightly to the side. “Come again?” 

Sam opened up the folder and looked down at it. “The Men of Letters found it back in fifty-six. They hid it somewhere to keep it safe from any demon or angel ever getting their hands on it. Guess who was team leader of the mission.”

Dean blinked in disbelief. “Henry.”

“Bingo. He didn’t even tell the other Men of Letters exactly where he hid it. He just gave three locations on the points where it _might_ be in case anyone needed to find it in the future. All three cities are places where Michael’s army is gathering. I checked the other places the angels are and, get this. They’re all on major intersections between the ley lines.”

Jack said to Rowena, looking rather proud of himself, “Ley lines are supernatural conductors of mystical energy. They’re supposed to connect holy places.” 

Rowena smiled in the way someone might regard a kindergartener when they told you the sky was blue. “Yes, dear, I know.” Jack’s face only fell slightly.

"That must be how Michael's picking the cities to send his army," Sam continued.

“So, Michael and the God Squad don’t know where it is yet?” Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. “No, but they’re getting warmer.”

“What cities are listed in the archives?” said Mary.

Sam looked down at the file and huffed out a breath, reading them off even thought Castiel was certain he already had them memorized. “Amaretto, Texas; Billings, Montana; and Lancaster, Ohio.” His eyes skimmed the rest of the page, reading over the information he hadn’t before. “Says the Hand is heavily warded. Blah blah. Oh! Looks like Henry put some kind of spell work on it to further protect it from falling into the wrong hands. Says here, the weapon can only be wielded using the blood of—whoa.” His face drained of color, and he stared down at the page as if he’d seen a ghost. Which was probably a bad analogy, Castiel considered, because if Sam really had seen a ghost, he wouldn’t have frozen.

“What?” Dean snipped impatiently. “Earth to Sam. Using the blood of what?”

Sam seemed to shake himself out of it. He looked up over the file. “Henry Winchester’s first born son.”

All conversation dropped instantaneously. No one even looked at one another. Until Dean said, his voice small, “Dad?” 

Castiel’s eyes shifted to Mary, who was fumbling with the ring hanging from the chain around her neck.

Sam’s voice was breathy when he responded, “Looks like, when Dad became a Man of Letters, he was supposed to pass it down to _his_ first born. Guess that means you, Dean.”

Dean shook his head in agitation, but Castiel knew that was only to cover up the more painful emotions he was burying. “Is there any way I can use it _now_ , without the spell passing it on to me?” 

Sam shook his head, not having an answer. “I dunno. I don’t think so. The report here is pretty specific.”

“Well, what the fuck?” Dean erupted, as if it were Sam’s fault. “You’re telling me, we have something that gank Michael, but no way of using it?” 

“Dean,” Castiel tried, because Sam didn’t deserve to be the subject of his frustration. He was simply the messenger.

Dean, as expected, ignored him. “I mean, it’s not like we can get Dad’s blood! And, I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but he’s not exactly here!” 

“I get it,” Sam said, halfway to arguing back. “It’s a bust. But—but that means it’ll be a bust for Michael, too.”

“Maybe it isn’t such a bust,” Rowena spoke up, appearing thoughtful. “There may be a way to get your dear old dad back from the other side.”

Mary looked up quickly, almost anxiously. “What?”

“Well, there’s a spell that can resurrect a human soul. It isn’t permanent, and I’m afraid it’s one time per customer deal. It’s also worth noting that the longer someone’s been dead, the shorter their time will be.”

Dean started. “How long will we get if he’s been gone twelve years?”

Rowena seemed to consider. She stood up delicately, and splayed her fingers on top of the table, leaning into them. “It isn’t an exact science. But I would say—oh, a week? Give or take.”

Mary’s eyes were latched onto the witch, barely blinking. “You’re saying . . . you can bring him back?”

“I’m not as powerful as I was before my run in with Death, but yes, I think I could swing it.” She looked at Dean, voice sly and smirk slier. “With the Grimoire.”

Of course. There was always a catch. Castiel was almost disappointed. 

“Oh, hell no,” Dean answered stubbornly. “No way.”

Rowena tsked. “Please. It’s not as if I’m asking to take it with me. I’ll be here the entire time, under your direct and overbearing supervision, I’m sure.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes at her, trying to look into her soul. It was useless, as black as ever—albeit, with a few swirls of something faintly lighter cropping up in the past couple years. “What do you want in return?” 

She almost looked offended. “Can’t I do this out of the goodness of my own heart?”

“No!” everyone chorused at once.

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. All I ask is that I can merely—,” she shrugged innocuously, “peruse a few other pages of the book, is all.”

Dean gave a dissatisfied sound. “Not happening.”

Castiel disagreed. Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea. Just because Rowena had been docile as of late didn’t mean she couldn’t turn on them if it suited her. But it was worth the risk to stop Michael. He was a much bigger threat than a witch, no matter how powerful. Rowena was out for her personal gain; Michael would level the world.

Apparently, Sam thought the same, because he titled his head to the side and pulled the corners of his mouth down in consideration. He said, “Deal.”

“What!” Dean shouted. “Are you crazy?”

“Dean, this is our only shot at Michael! Don’t you think we should take it?”

Dean hesitated, and there was something else—something he wasn’t saying. Some reason for not wanting to do the spell other than allowing Rowena use the book. But he didn’t speak it.

Sam looked at Mary. “Mom?”

There was a long pause into which Mary’s fingers stilled around her wedding ring. And then she said, “Okay. Yes. I think—I think we should do it.”

Dean clamped his jaw, expression going blank as he stared her down. “You know it’s only temporary? She just _said_ it was only temporary.” And that was the closest he’d ever get to sharing his fears.

“Yeah, honey,” Mary said, not looking up at him. “I know.”

Dean looked at Castiel, desperate for back up. Castiel didn’t know what to say. He knew this was their best option at the moment. But, “This isn’t my choice to make, Dean.” 

Dean dropped his head into a sigh, clearly outnumbered. He nodded his acquiescence.

“Well, not a moment to spare!” Rowena said, suddenly chipper. “Let’s see that book, then.”

They had many of the ingredients the spell required already stocked in the bunkers storeroom. For what they didn’t have, Sam and Dean drove to one of their contacts in Nebraska to obtain. In the interim, they tasked Castiel with watching Rowena as she pilfered through the Grimoire.

When the brothers returned, Rowena set the alter on one of the library tables and put the ingredients together. “We’ll need to lay down a ring of salt on the floor where you want him to be,” she said, following the instructions from the book opened up on the table. 

“Salt?” Dean wondered. “Wait, is he gonna be a ghost?”

“He’ll be flesh and blood,” was the answer. “The salt is for purification purposes, to ward off any unwanted passengers trying to hitch a ride with him back into the world of the living.”

They did as she said, setting a circle of salt next to the table.

Then, Rowena had Jack fetch a candle and lit it. She spoke an incantation, and the flame leapt high. She explained, “This flame will be connected your father’s life force. It will tell you how much time he has left. The closer it gets the wick, the less time he’ll be with you.”

When the mixture was fully prepared, she painted it on the floor inside the circle of salt, and Dean grumbled about having to mop it up later. Then, she said, “Almost finished. I’ll just need something of his—something with a strong enough connection to him to resurrect him.” 

Mary said, “I think I have an idea.” She disappeared to her bedroom, and returned a few minutes later with John’s journal.

Rowena smiled as she took the journal from Mary and held it between both hands. “This will do nicely, thank you.”

As she placed it into the circle on top of the mixture, Dean barked, “Oh, come on! That shit’s gonna be impossible to get out of _leather_!” Castiel fought a fond smile, as he thought it wouldn’t be appropriate in their current situation. But he knew how attached Dean became to things—arbitrary items such as a t-shirt whose seams had been sown and re-sown with different colored thread in attempt to salvage it, a pair of boots that no longer had any traction on the soles but he refused to throw out, his memory foam mattress, his favorite spatula, his usual beer brands; and the more important items—his car, the bunker, the photographs he kept in his drawer, his father’s journal. They were more than creature comforts. They were the things Castiel held onto when Dean had been possessed, the things that kept Dean alive and with him.

Dean would never admit it, but he was sentimental. Castiel was grateful for that, which made him sentimental, too, he supposed. After all, he was certainly attached to Dean.

“Okay, Dean, just—,” Sam huffed, but dropped it. He looked back to Rowena and gestured with his arm. “Go ahead with the spell.”

Rowena walked back around the table to stand behind the Grimoire. “Everybody ready?” she asked, even if she didn’t really care about the answer. It was too late to turn back, anyway.

The three Winchesters shared weighted looks, Sam and Dean standing between the tables, Mary along the bookshelves. Castiel and Jack stood out of the way, near the telescope.

Dean gave Rowena the okay, and she began reciting from the text in Latin. As the spell went on, her voice grew in volume and strength. The floor began to shake in a miniature earthquake, causing the contents of the room to rattle and clatter. Jack grabbed onto Castiel’s sleeve to keep balance, even though the tremors weren’t dangerous. Then, the overhead lights and the lamps on the table flickered. They all looked up instinctually, watching the bulbs burst on and off. It put specks of white light in Castiel’s human eyes as he blinked.

When he looked back at Rowena, her own eyes were glowing purple. Her palm was held out towards the circle of salt.

A breeze picked up, waving through Castiel’s hair and toying with the ends of his coat. He felt the molecules of the air shift rapidly, electrons zapping back and forth, knocking against each other. They converged around the salt, racing together and building upon each other in layers of carbon, hydrogen, and nitrogen; calcium and phosphorus. Electricity crackled inside of it, forming a cloud that went from the floor to roughly six feet above the ground inside the circle. 

The cloud began burning in a brilliant white light, washing out the colors of the room. Rowena shouted the last words of the spell, and thrust her hand towards the light. It hummed loudly, and Castiel saw the Winchesters clutching their ears. The light pushed out, flashing across the entire room. Castiel reflexively threw his arms over Jack. And then, the light cut out abruptly.

The room settled. Stray pages fluttered downward with gravity. Castiel straightened out, as did everyone else. Rowena’s eyes had stopped glowing, and the Winchesters blinked rapidly as their eyes adjusted to the relative darkness. They looked towards the circle of salt, all of them going still.

In the center of the circle stood a man. Castiel had only ever seen John Winchester in his youth, and the older version of him was shorter than he’d imagined. His head was fuller with hair than he’d pictured. He wore an army green shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, over a t-shirt, and dirty jeans. Castiel assumed they were the clothes he’d died in. He watched John’s profile, standing to the side of him, as John faced his sons. His back was to Mary.

It took a long time for anyone to say anything. The three Winchester men stared at each other, all of them in disbelief. But then, Dean seemed to find his voice. “Dad?”

John blinked as if surprised. He said in a voice not as deep as the one Castiel had expected, “Dean?" 

Dean gave a quick, loud and shaky exhale that could have been a laugh. A hesitant grin broke out onto his face as charged forward. “Hey, Dad.” He tossed his arms around John, and held him tightly. It took another moment, but John must have realized this was real, and he embraced Dean back.

Castiel watched them, the way Dean’s eyes closed, the way he burrowed his face into his father’s shoulder. He looked like a child who had just woken up from a nightmare, trying to convince himself that he was safe now, that no harm would come to him. It made Castiel ache.

When the hug broke, Dean was all smiles. He pushed back and John clapped his hand on his shoulder, appraising him. Dean mirrored the position. Then, John looked to Sam.

“Sam? Is that you, son?” 

Sam’s eyes were glistening, and every line of him was soft. “Yeah—yeah, Dad. It’s me.” He came forward, and the two of them hugged. 

John said, voice muffled by Sam’s arms, “You’re a lot bigger.” 

Sam laughed, and it was thick and wet.

“What the hell happened? Where are we?” John asked, and then his expression turned serious. “Wait, you two—you’re not . . .?”

Castiel knew what he was asking. If his sons were dead, if they were somehow reunited in Heaven. He wondered, briefly, what John Winchester’s Heaven looked like.

Dean must have understood it, too, because he assured, “No. No, we’re alive. You are, too.” 

“What? How is that—?”

“John?”

Mary’s voice was small, quiet. She seemed surprised at herself that she’d said anything at all.

Dean and Sam looked at her, and both of them softened. They looked to John, who had turned around at the sound of his name. He appeared spellbound, breathless. Sam and Dean were smiling gently, and Castiel found himself doing the same. 

“Mary?” He seemed dumbfounded, wary. Cautious. Elated. 

She nodded vigorously, shaking a few tears from her eyes, her curls bouncing. Castiel noticed her wedding band was now back on her finger. She took slow steps forward, and John stepped out of the salt ring towards her.

“How—?”

She sniffled, and laughed. “It’s a long story.”

He seemed unable to say anything else but, “Mary.” They stood before each other for a long pause before, at once, as if on cue, they fell into each other’s embrace.

Castiel watched them for a moment, and then his eyes slid to Dean. He couldn’t quite force himself to stop looking at him once he’d started. Dean’s soul was a shining beacon of gold and silver and pink, an array of sunrise. He shone so brightly.

When John and Mary broke apart, there were tears in their eyes, but they were beaming up at each other, laughing. It was then that John seemed to realize they had an audience. “You, uh, you boys gonna introduce me to your friends?”

“Yeah,” Dean said at once, his excitement still coming through. “This—this is Rowena. She’s the one who brought you back.”

John eyed the Grimoire, and then her, and he must have known she was a witch. He was wondering, Castiel was sure, what kind of witch—good or bad. Castiel realized he wasn’t quite certain what the answer to that was anymore.

“Hi,” John said, nodding to Rowena, his arm coming up around Mary’s shoulder and holding onto her arm. Rowena said nothing, only nodded.

“And this,” Dean said, bounding towards Castiel and Jack. He clapped Castiel on the back. “This is Cas. And Jack.” If possible, he was even more animated than before. 

“Hey,” John greeted. 

“Hello,” Castiel said, wondering if he sounded stiff.

Jack, however, gave a large smile and held his hand up, feeding off Dean’s good energy. “Hello!”

“And you two are—,” he looked at Jack, seeing how young he was, “hunters?”

“Not exactly,” Castiel said, but Dean spoke over him.

“Cas is an angel!”

John shook his head like he hadn’t heard correctly. “I’m sorry, did you just say he’s an _angel_?”

“Yeah,” Dean answered. “Angel. You know, like—wings, halo, sleeps on a cloud.”

Castiel felt the need to clarify, “I don’t sleep on clouds. In fact, I don’t sleep at all.” Dean knew that. He slept next to Castiel, who was very much awake, each night.

He looked at Sam for support, but Sam suddenly seemed closed off, cautious even. It unsettled Castiel.

Dean powered through, even though John was staring. Castiel thought that was the closest a man like him would come to gaping. “And Jack’s a nephilim.”

John looked even more surprised. “A nephilim?”

“A cross between an angel and a human,” Jack informed him. 

“Yeah, I know what a nephilim is, I just didn’t think they existed.” 

Jack continued to smile cheerfully. “We _are_ a rare breed.”

“I didn’t think angels were real, either,” John mused.

Sam figured that was his time to cut in. “Yeah, that’s, uh—kinda why you’re here. There’s this other angel, an archangel. Michael. He’s after this weapon, and, turns out, you’re the only one who can use it.”

John appeared to decide that an archangel looking for a weapon was a bad thing, even if he didn’t have all the details. “Me?” he asked dryly.

“Well, your blood.”

“Sammy, I was playing catch with Dean in the park five minutes ago, so you’re gonna have to explain things a little better to me.”

Dean looked taken aback at the idea of being a part of his father’s Heaven. He let out a breath into a shy smile directed at his shoes.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry, Dad,” Sam said into a grin, shaking his head in the way he did when his mind was buzzing. He often had to remind himself that not everyone could follow his train of thought. The speed in which his brain processed information, for a human, never ceased to astound Castiel.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” John said. “Starting with where we are.”

Sam launched into an explanation, about the bunker, about the Men of Letters, about legacies, about Henry Winchester. John had to sit down. 

“My dad was one of these—Men of Letters?” he asked, getting a feel for the words.

“Yeah,” Dean said. He was sitting on the corner of the table now. Sam was sitting across from John, and Mary was behind John, hand on his shoulder. “He didn’t leave you, Dad. He was chasing a demon to our time, but he was always going back. He died saving us.”

John’s jaw tensed, and he nodded down at his lap. “Thank you boys for telling me that,” he said, his voice a little scratchier than before. He cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Now, what’s all this about a weapon and the archangel Michael? Archangels are real, too?” His eyes quickly flickered to Castiel before turning back.

“They’re real,” Sam said. “Most of them are dead now.”

“And they’re dicks,” Dean supplied.

“And the other angels?” John posed. “They dicks, too?”

Dean took in a breath, considering. “Well—.”

“No,” Castiel answered for him, walking towards the group. He figured it was okay to rejoin the conversation now that the family matters were over. “There are a few who, I believe, would offer their help if we sought it.”

Dean rolled his eyes, his mouth falling open. “Maybe for a price.”

“The price is their freedom—from Michael.”

“They don’t want that, Cas. You know that.”

“No, I _don’t_ know that, Dean,” he argued. “If you let me go to Heaven, I could—.”

“Could _what_? Get yourself locked up? Or worse? Jeez, why are you so hung up on this, anyway? For the last time, no. I don’t like it.”

Castiel sighed, and wondered why Dean’s opinion alone was enough to stop him. He wasn’t so much as seeking Dean’s permission as his support. He wanted them to be together on this. Besides, going behind Dean’s back never worked well in the past. But, in that moment, he was considering doing it anyway.

“You know it’s worth a shot,” he tried again, even though he knew it would be fruitless.

Sure enough, Dean said, “I disagree.”

“You agree with me. You’re just being contradictory.”

Before Dean could say anything back, John muttered to Mary, “Are they always like this?” 

Mary snorted.

“Yeah,” Sam answered, exasperated. “All the time.”

“You should see them when they’re actually fighting,” Mary added. 

Dean scoffed. “Me and Cas don’t _fight_.” 

Cas frowned. “We fight a lot, Dean.” 

At the same time, Sam exclaimed, “What? Yes, you do!”

And Mary said, “Like an old married couple.”

And Jack said, “I’ve seen you fight.” 

Rowena just laughed like Dean had told a particularly funny joke.

“Okay!” Dean yelled, but his ears were turning red, and he wouldn’t look anyone in the face. He was cagey all of a sudden, gaze flashing to his father before quickly pulling away. “Moving on. With ideas for _real_ plans, please.”

John stood up from his chair. “Sounds good to me. Who wants to get me all caught up?”

“I will,” Mary said, slipping her hand into his. “You hungry? I think we have something to eat in the kitchen.”

John pulled a face. “Oh, God. Don’t tell me you’re trying to cook again.”

“Hey!” Mary warned, slapping his chest lightly with the back of her hand, but she was grinning. Sam and Dean were looking at them with those soft expressions again as they disappeared into the hall.

A quiet swept over the room in their absence, like no one knew what to do with themselves. It was Rowena who finally spoke up. “Well, I best be on my way.” Her bag was already packed, her coat on. “No offense, but I don’t think I should stay with John Winchester around.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “Yeah, probably a good idea.”

Rowena turned to the stairs and began sauntering towards them, but Dean stopped her.

“Rowena!” She froze, keeping her back to them. “The book.”

Her shoulders dropped, and she swiftly spun back around, walked to the table, and slammed her bag on top of it. She pulled the Grimoire out of it and gave it up to Dean. He shot her a sour glare, to which she said coolly, “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

Castiel was fairly certain Dean could.

“Bye, boys,” Rowena then said, and looked at Sam. “Sam,” she abridged her farewell, and they watched her leave.

 

///

 

A few hours later, Castiel found Dean in the library again.  His feet were kicked up on the seat of the chair next to him, a beer at his elbow on the table, and an ancient tome tipped on his thighs.  Castiel glanced into the war room, where Sam was huddled over his laptop, earphones in.  Before, he said he'd start researching the towns on Henry Winchester's list, and Castiel assumed he'd enlisted Dean's help.

"Hi," Castiel said, smoothing down the ends of his coat so it didn't bunch when he sat down across from Dean.

Dean looked up, startled but trying to play it off.  He closed the book resting on his legs.  "Hey," he said.

"Did you find anything?"  Castiel nodded to the book.

"Huh?  Oh.  No, zitch."  He picked himself up, book hanging by the spine in one hand, and replaced it on the shelf.  Then, he went to the mini fridge and took out a beer, twisting the cap open and sliding it across the table.  Castiel caught it before it slid too far, even if he didn't want it.

"So?" Dean prompted, sitting back down, a blinding grin blooming on his face.  "What do you think?"  Castiel must have been wearing perplexity on his features, because Dean continued, "Of Dad?"

Castiel didn't know how to respond.  He'd barely met John.  They were only in a room together for a few minutes, and he wasn't focused on Castiel much of the time.  He held the beer bottle between his hands, wiping at the condensation beginning to blossom on the glass with his thumb.

"You look like him," he said after a moment of consideration.  It was all he could come up with.

"I do?"  Dean only pondered it for a second, but he seemed to take it as a compliment.  Then, he said, exuberance back in his tone, "Yeah, but - I meant about Michael.  I mean, we got a real shot now."

In a way, Castiel supposed that were true.  With John, they could obtain to strongest Hand of God, but he didn't think Dean was talking about the weapon.  "I thought he'd never seen an angel before?"

Dean blinked, floundering a little.  "Well, I mean, no, he hasn't.  But, man—," he barked out a laugh, regaining his jubilant composure.  "Just wait 'til you see him in action.  He'll come up with a way to beat Michael and his groupies."  He sat back, nodding surely, more to himself than to Castiel.  "He'll figure it out."

There was relief in Dean's eyes, and his shoulders were relaxed in a way Castiel hadn't seen in a long time.  He didn't look afraid anymore, Castiel realized.  It made him hopeful suddenly, having John there.  There must have been a reason Dean put so much faith in him, and John certainly had a high reputation as a hunter.  Perhaps his added fortitude would give them a shot, if not an advantage.  Perhaps John Winchester was the addition they needed to their team.

Castiel looked around, as if John would appear out of thin air.  "Where is he?"

"Still in the kitchen with Mom."  Shortly after John had been resurrected, Mary had taken him to the kitchen to catch him up on what was happening, and a great few other things, Castiel was sure.  He imagined it was an emotional reunion.  Everyone else gave the kitchen a wide breadth.  "Lots of catching up to do.  You know."  He turned his head towards the hallway leading to the kitchen, some of the worry returning to the lines of his body.

It made Castiel reach across the table and take Dean's hand, resting his palm over it.  Dean swiveled back around, softening.  He turned his hand over, warm and rough and familiar, to cradle Castiel's palm in his.

His soul spun in whirls of sea green and nighttime blue. 

There were footsteps in the hallway, the sound of one set of them still strange to Castiel's ears.  Dean tensed somewhat, cleared his throat, and sat back in his chair, sliding his hand out from under Castiel's in the process. 

When they entered the room, Mary’s face was blotchy but dry, and John’s eyes were still slightly red rimmed. They wore the remnants of emotion on their faces, but neither of them appeared sad. They stayed close to one another, Mary’s side bumping into John’s and John’s arm curled around her hips. Every so often, she would glance up at him, or he would glance down at her, but never at the same time.

Castiel looked at Dean, who hardly blinked as he stared at his parents, a very small smile of disbelief on his face that made Castiel remember what it felt like to be breathless.

“You up to speed?” Dean asked, doing his best to knock himself out of the spell that had overcome him.

John nodded softly. “Yeah, I think so.” His voice was low, rough, like Dean’s sometimes got when he was exhausted. The drawl of the accent licking his words was extenuated by it. His eyes flickered to Castiel for a brief time, just long enough to size him up, before pulling away from Mary. After that, he didn’t pay Castiel much mind. 

“Sammy, why don’t you come over here? I wanna say something to you boys.”

Sam reacted to the sound of his name. He pulled his headphones out of his ears and stood up, his face breaking into the same smile Dean wore just moments ago. He shuffled into the library and sat down next to his brother, body oriented to the side to keep John in view. “What is it, Dad?”

John leaned against the opposite table, hands wrapping around the end of the polished wood behind him. He hung his head, as if mustering his thoughts into something he could verbalize. Sam and Dean waited, and Castiel felt himself doing the same. After a moment, John dropped his shoulders into an exhale and peered back up at his sons. 

“Seems like you two have gone through hell since the last time we saw each other.” 

It was an understatement in some ways, and in other ways it was right on the nose. Castiel wasn’t sure if he was using _hell_ in the literal sense or as a figure of speech. Perhaps both.

Sam and Dean shared a look. “Yes, sir,” Sam said for both of them.

“I thought I’d seen some crap, especially in my own trip down South, but you—.” John shook his head, apparently searching for the right words again. “You’ve done things I wouldda never imagined. And the fact that you’re still sittin’ here, and going out there—fighting the fight? You’ve done a damn fine job.”

Sam looked down, nodding slightly as he tried to contain some emotion. Mary appeared a little misty-eyed again. Dean swallowed, jaw tensing, but the smile he was trying to hold back flickered on his lips for a fraction of a second.

“Yeah, well,” Dean said, “we were raised right.”

John didn’t say anything to that, but he seemed pleased. He sniffed, and ran his palm over the back on his neck in thought like Castiel had seen Dean do countless times. “But it isn’t over. There’s still one hell of a mess to clean up, and from what your mother tells me, you need my help. So, I’m here. What have you found out about the towns on my dad’s list?”

And then it was all down to business. It was slightly jarring. Castiel had been expecting a little more of a reunion, but he supposed it was better this way. There was no time to waste.

“Uh, not much,” Sam admitted. “I mean, there’s more angel activity in all three of them than anywhere else, but we already knew that. They all have connections to the Men of Letters, so the Hand of God could be hidden in any one of them.”

“What kind of connections?” John asked.

Sam shrugged, but there was something different about the way he was imparting information. It wasn’t his usual, casual explanations. His tone now reminded Castiel of the angels under his charge when he’d led them in battle. “Chapter house in Lancaster. A bunker in Amarillo. Both of them defunct now.” 

“And Billings?” John came forward, leaning his fists into the table where the three of them sat.

“I couldn’t find anything official in the records,” Sam told him. “But, in his report, Henry—uh, _grandpa_ —mentioned a contact who lived in the area, a retired member of his chapter. I looked him up. He died back in oh-two.”

“So, that’ll probably be the least likely place the weapon is hidden?” It was phrased like a question, and spoken as one, but it still somehow wasn’t one. 

“Yeah, probably.”

“But not definitely,” Dean cut in. “The thing could be in any one of those towns. We won’t know for sure until we check ‘em out.”

“I agree,” Mary said. “Henry must have put it on the list of a reason. It may be there _because_ it’s the least likely.”

John didn’t appear convinced on that. “Dad wasn’t really the kind of guy who liked to play those kinds of games. But, yeah, maybe you’re right.” He cast his gaze around the room. “Turns out there was plenty I didn’t know about him.”

There was a lull that fell after that, as no one knew what to say. Castiel shifted a little awkwardly. He realized he hadn’t spoken since John and Mary came into the room, and he felt as if everyone else had forgotten he was there. _He_ had even forgotten. He lost himself in observing the Winchesters. At first, he wondered if he should have been there at all for such a private moment, but he hadn’t felt any more comfortable when the conversation turned to their mission. He hoped his presence wasn’t too much of an intrusion.

John cleared his throat. “Anyway,” he said. “We need to check all three of these places, but we don’t have a lot of time. We’ll cover more ground if we split up.”

None of them seemed too keen on that idea, but it was necessary. Castiel only had one concern: “Breaking up our numbers will give the angels the advantage,” he said, trying not to feel as if he were interjecting. “There are too many of them in each of those places. If they catch us, they’re take us to Michael, and the rest of us will have no way of knowing until it’s too late.”

John was giving him the same look he had earlier, as if Castiel were a specimen under a microscope. 

“It’s likely they don’t know about John, but if Michael finds out about you, he’ll want to find you. And Dean.” 

John’s only retort was, “ _They_?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes in confusion, but John didn’t explain.

Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel saw Dean shift a little.

“It’s a risk we’re going to have to take,” John decided. “Sam, why don’t you an your mom head to Amarillo?” Sam deflated somewhat at the thought of driving all the way back to Texas after such a short time, but didn’t protest. “Dean, you and me can go together.”

Castiel started at that. He wasn’t comfortable with Dean getting so close to Michael’s army without Castiel there as back up. Apparently, Dean didn’t like some aspect of the plan either, because he asked, “Wait, I kinda thought you’d wanna go with Mom?”

Mary and John locked eyes, a ghost of a smile lighting both of their faces, but then John turned back and said, “We’ll only be gone a day. It’ll be fun, Dean.” He turned a little playful as he said, “Unless you’re too cool to spend time with your old man now?”

Dean scoffed out a laugh and looked at the table. He looked as if he desperately wanted to take the offer, but something held him back. “No, no, it’s not that.”

“It’s dangerous,” Castiel said for him. “As I _just_ said, you and Dean will be Michael’s targets. We shouldn’t make it easy for him by putting you both together. I’ll go with Dean. You and Mary should go together.”

“No.” He kept his face forward, impassive. Cold, suddenly. “My sons and I know how to hunt together. It’ll be quicker if we pair up.” 

“Then, why not take Sam?” 

“Because I’m taking Dean.” He said it as if it were final, the law of the land. He looked at Dean, almost challenging, “Unless you got a problem with that?”

Dean caught Castiel’s eyes, and Castiel silently asked him to say that he did. But Dean said, “No, I don’t got a problem.” And then, “It’s fine, Cas. We’ll be alright.”

Castiel wanted to disagree more, but it seemed the decision had been made. The Winchesters were already moving on. “Okay. We’ll hit up Ohio,” John said. “Castiel and the boy can take Billings.”

Perhaps it was just leftover from before, but Castiel felt the need to argue again. “We agreed that was the least likely place the weapon will be.”

He saw Sam thin his lips in an effort to silence whatever he wanted to say, and Dean groaned a little.

“Still needs to be checked,” said John. 

“But why Jack and I?” They were the most powerful, after all. The strongest, even if neither of them had all of their grace left. The Winchesters were only humans.

“Because,” John said after an irritated breath, “you have the least experience.”

That was just incorrect. “I already had several million years of experience by the time your ancestors crawled out of sea.”

“With hunting?” 

He may have had a point there, but Castiel’s blood was starting to boil. “With _angels_.”

John laughed, “Right, right. Because you’re one of them.” 

“Dad,” Sam and Dean said at the same time, both of them sounding careful.

John sighed, dropping some of his annoyance. “Look, do you wanna help or not?” 

Castiel wasn’t sure why that question was even posed. “Of course I—.”

“Then, help in Billings.”

Castiel clamped his jaw shut, and jerked his head back in a mixture of surprise and frustration. He tried to remind himself that John was Sam and Dean’s father, so he could not smite him. Also, they needed him; and, if he was really as good of a hunter and his sons reputed him to be, they desperately needed him. 

John straightened out. “Alright. You boys get some sleep. We should leave in the morning. If anyone finds the thing, we all meet up. No one try to get it on their own. That clear?”

Both Dean and Sam nodded, but Sam still appeared to be biting his tongue. Hard. So hard Castiel wondered if it would start to bleed.

John softened when he turned back to Mary.

“Come on. You must be exhausted. Big day today,” she said, holding out her hand to him, her smile sweet. It warmed Castiel to see, and some of his anger was forgotten. 

“Yeah,” he agreed, his large hand engulfing hers. “Big day.”

They all watched them walk off to the hallway that led to the dorms. After a few beats, the ends of Sam’s chair squeaked against the floor. “I think I’m gonna hit it, too.” He looked at Castiel with something akin to concern on his face. “’Night, guys.”

“’Night.”

“Goodnight, Sam.” 

Now that they were alone, Castiel knew he could speak more freely. They both could. Dean had his reservations about going with his father, and Castiel knew he could convince him not to. He opened his mouth, about to speak, when Dean abruptly stood up.

“Man, I’m starving,” he said, trying to act normally but becoming skittish instead. “Guess it’s safe to go into the kitchen now that those two crazy kids are out, huh? You hungry?”

Of course, Castiel wasn’t hungry. He was an angel. But before he could say so, Dean spun around and hustled towards the hall. He muttered, “I’ll go make us some food.” 

“Dean,” Castiel called after him. Dean disappeared into the hall. “Dean!”

 

///

 

Okay, so John and Cas’ first real interaction could have gone a lot better. Dean was willing to admit that. But it also could have gone a lot worse, so he was counting it as a win. The best things to do now were keep his head down and not give John any reason to suspect Cas wasn’t down with their plans. It would all go a lot smoother if they were all on the same page, and sometimes that required compromise. Like Cas going to Montana and Dean going to Ohio.

Besides, he and Cas spent almost every day together. It would nice to hit the road with his dad again—fun, even. There was a familiarity in it, a safety. Hell, suddenly everything felt safe. With John at the helm, they might actually be able to pull this off once and for all. 

He heard Cas calling him as he rifled through the kitchen fridge in search of something quick to make, more out of the need for something to do than any real hunger.

But he knew he should eat something. His gut felt hollow, but he wasn’t sure he could contribute that to a lack of food. After all, the day had been kind of a rollercoaster. Dean had given his parents the space they needed, and the time they needed, to catch up. It had been mostly quiet, their words hushed from down the hall. However, he’d heard them arguing at one point, shouting at each other, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying. He figured that might happen, once John found out all the secrets she’d kept from him and once Mary confronted him about how he’d chosen to raise Sam and Dean after she died.

He rationally knew to expect it, just as he knew it would pass. But hearing it gave him flashbacks to when he was very young, when he would sit at the top of the stairs and listen to them argue or run to his bedroom and try to block out the sound; or, after Sam was born, crawling into his crib with him and drawing him close to his chest, keeping him deaf to what was going on downstairs. When he would hear the front door slam as John walked out, and he felt the bone-deep dread, the tension of held breath that he wouldn’t come back.

But he always came back. And their argument this time subsided, too.

And Dean was happy for them, for finally being together again. He was generally just happy. And nervous. His stomach was a mess of giddy excitement at having John back and nauseating nervousness at having his father and his angel-in-a-man’s-body maybe-boyfriend in the same room for any amount of time. But it was easier to attribute the conflicting emotions raging inside of him to needing a bite to eat. 

It didn’t help his nerves any when Cas’ purposeful footsteps sounded in the hall, and especially not when he entered the kitchen.

Dean half-glanced over his shoulder at him. “We got some leftover chicken from a couple nights ago. I could slap that on some sandwiches.” 

“Dean,” Cas said again, sounding wearier now. He slouched down the steps and came to rest on the opposite side of the metal counter. “I think we should reconsider the grouping for tomorrow.”

And there it was. Direct, loud, and clear. Dean definitely couldn’t pretend he hadn’t heard him, and he definitely couldn’t keep talking about friggin’ sandwiches without Cas throwing a hissy fit. He really didn’t have an out here.

He let out a breath and shut to fridge door, and met Cas across the counter. “Look, I get it,” he said, cutting to the chase. “But it’s a _day_ , Cas. So, cool it, would you?” 

He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. 

“You can’t possibly be so blasé about this, Dean. We’re risking enough by putting you in the middle of Michael’s army without proper reinforcements, but to go with your father—the only person on earth who can use the weapon Michael is after? You don’t think there’s _anything_ wrong with that plan?”

Dean shrugged. “Not really.”

Cas gave him an exasperated look.

“Look, Cas, he thinks this is what’s best.”

Cas narrowed his eyes at him, doing that creepy thing he did that made Dean think he was reading his mind. “What do you think is best?”

It didn’t matter what he thought. They’d been doing what they thought was best for years now, and it always led to another crap storm. Maybe it was time to let someone else take the reins, try it a different way.

“I think we should give his way a shot,” he said, and it was clearly not the answer Cas wanted to hear. “Look, I dunno what to tell you. He wanted me to go with him.” Even as Dean said it, some of his giddiness returned. John hadn’t chosen to spend time with Sam or Mary. He chose Dean. He’d missed Dean, maybe as much as Dean had missed him. “There’s no changing his mind.”

“Why _was_ he so adamant?”

And, just like that, his stomach flopped and the nervousness returned. He’d be stuck in the car with his dad for a long time, trapped, and there were any number of things John could needle at. Dean didn’t know if he was ready to give answers for some things.

He tried to play it off. “Because I’m the most fun on road trips.”

He expected Cas to at least roll his eyes at that, but the only thing he was met with was a deadpan stare.

Dean walked around the counter so there wasn’t anything between them. “Don’t worry, alright? I got all the back up I need if Michael’s mooks come knockin’. I’m in good hands—the best.” He reached down and cupped his hands into Cas’, bringing them up to his lips and dragging them across Cas’ knuckles. “Maybe not the _nicest_ hands, but . . .”

Cas sighed, looking off to the side in thought. “Your father doesn’t seem to like me very much,” he said. “Or trust me.”

“What? Sure he does!” 

Cas shot him a look as if to say _you must be joking_. And, fair. John hadn’t been the friendliest, but then again, neither had Cas. 

“He just doesn’t know you yet,” Dean allowed. “He will, okay? He just gets that way around strangers. Life he’s had, can you blame him?”

Cas withered slightly. “I’m not a stranger, Dean.”

“You are to him.”

“Your mother liked me right away.”

“Well, Mom likes everybody.”

Cas scrunched his nose. “No, she doesn’t.”

Dean let his hands drop to the side in favor of holding Cas by the hips inside his coat. “Give it a little bit of time. He’ll like you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because, like you said, Mom likes you. And Sam likes you.” He buried his face into the crook of Cas’ neck and brought his lips to his skin. “I like you.” He kissed his throat, as if to show him just how much he liked him, and almost instinctively, Cas angled his head up to give him more access. “You’re a likeable guy.” 

“You didn’t like me when we first met,” Cas said, and Dean felt his voice box trembling against his lips. “You stabbed me, if you remember.” 

How could Dean forget? He chuckled against Cas’ skin. “That’s how I flirt. Beats cheesy pick-up lines.” Especially because it was hard to top Cas’ pick-up line. _I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition_. Yeah, definitely a winner.

Cas’ slipped his hands beneath Dean’s arms to hold him at the ribs. “Does it ever work?" 

Dean brought his face back up, and bumped his nose against Cas’. “Worked on you.” 

Their lips brushed.

“I suppose it did.”

Dean pressed Cas’ back against the edge of the counter as he kissed him, crowding up against him. Cas’ fingers drummed against Dean’s sides, massaging into his muscles and setting wrinkles into his skirt. Dean slid his knee in between Cas’ and pressed their bodies closer together, hips flush.

Cas made a sound from deep within his throat that might have been a growl, and it went straight to Dean’s dick. He felt Cas licking against the seam of his lips, so Dean sighed into his mouth, letting their tongues slide together. His hands moved down from Cas’ hips to cup his ass, and he heard himself groaning now, too.

He kissed down Cas’ chin, and left a trail along his sharp jaw until he reached his earlobe. He sucked on the bolt of his jaw, felt it move when Cas’ asked, voice like gravel, “Weren’t you going to eat something?” 

Dean hummed and stood up straight, his eyes immediately fixing on Cas’ lips. “Yeah, somethin’.” He saw Cas break into that crooked smile of his, the one that made Dean nervous for all the right reasons.

“Let’s go,” Cas said then, low and conspiring. He grabbed Dean’s wrist and tugged him out of the kitchen, just long enough to make sure he was following. Dean walked after him, too close, tripping over Cas’ heels every so often. His hand shot forward to caress Cas’ hip.

When they got to the hallway leading to the dorms, Dean threw his arms around him from behind to halt him. He kissed down the side of Cas’ neck.

“Dean,” Cas breathed, dipping his head back to rest on Dean’s shoulder. He liked the way Cas said his name. Like it was meant to be said by him, sighed by him, yelled by him, kept behind his teeth to do with what he will.

Dean untucked Cas’ shirt and felt his way up his torso, along the straights and narrows of Cas’ body.

“Dean,” he whispered again. And then, lightning quick, he spun around in Dean’s hold and shoved him against the wall. Dean gasped, made a little lightheaded by the motion, and more so when Cas growled, “ _Dean_.” 

He pushed Dean into a hard kiss, mouths crashing against each other. Dean’s head started swimming, heat rising in him to color his cheeks and building a pressure down low. Cas’ hand went down between them to palm at Dean, already half-hard, through his jeans. Dean moaned into his mouth and, damn, it was a full house tonight. They needed some privacy before someone walked out of their room and saw them dry humping against the wall like a couple of teenagers. 

“Cas, Cas, Cas, slow down,” Dean reminded him, even if he wanted the opposite of that.

Cas’ brow knitted together, his face the portrait of confusion and petulance, which was always weird to see when Dean’s dick was in his hands. “Why?” 

“Because we’re in— _shit_.” Cas had put more pressure in the heel of his palm, digging into the base of Dean’s cock. “Shit, Cas. Shit. We’re in—hallway.”

Cas appeared even more confused for a second, and then he looked around. “Oh,” he said, and stepped backwards, and Dean wanted the contact back immediately. “My mistake. But you did start it.”

“Yeah, yeah, now let’s go.” He turned Cas around by the shoulders and shepherded him down the hall, towards Dean’s room. _Their_ room, as Dean inwardly started calling it, even if they’d never explicitly had the conversation. They’d never really been good at talking to each other about that kind of stuff; and Dean guessed, in some ways, they talked even less now. Their mouths were usually otherwise occupied whenever they had a spare minute alone.

God, they really were like teenagers.

“Okay, get inside, get inside,” Dean said, standing too close to Castiel’s spine and practically shoving him into the bedroom the second the door was open. When it was closed again, he didn’t waste any time before pressing Cas up against it and going to town on that certain part of his neck that always made his knees buckle. 

Cas manhandled his hips, pulling him in as close as possible and dragging his palms to the dimples of Dean’s lower back to keep him in place. He tilted his chin, angling to catch Dean’s mouth, and the crush of his lips was like a rockslide down a cliff face. Dean moved his hands down to Cas’ thighs and lifted one to hip-level so he could slot their bodies closer together.

The result was instantaneous. Cas grinded up against him and moaned into his mouth. Dean faltered a little, weak. The burning in his lungs reminded him that he had to breathe, even if Cas didn’t. He pulled away, drawing in deep bouts, and Cas kept going—kissing along his jaw, his ear, his neck.

“Damn, Cas,” Dean said, still out of breath. He rolled his hips into Castiel’s pushing him up further against the door, and Cas let out a sound that made Dean thankful the walls in the bunker were so thick.

They stayed like that for a while, groping and kissing and panting and gyrating into each other in some unspoken competition of who would drive the other crazier. Dean lost. He knew it when he started taking Castiel’s clothes off. But Cas wasn’t too far behind. His fingers tugged impatiently at Dean’s t-shirt. He shucked it midway up his torso, and left it for Dean to take off the rest of the way. He’d already moved on to the fly of Dean’s jeans.

Dean caught his mouth again, noses brushing together as he nipped at Cas’ lips, a teasing smile on his own. He hooked his finger into the front of Cas’ pants and guided him forwards, walking back until his legs hit the edge of the bed.

The whole way over, Cas was giving him the look that Dean secretly called the _I’m Gonna Eat You Alive Look_. It was something he’d seen on Cas’ face before, his tongue rolling against his jaw and his eyes hooded and calculating; it usually came up when he was being sneaky, implementing some strategy he’d come up with the get what he wanted. It was hot as hell in life or death situations, and it was even hotter in this context, focused on Dean. 

“What’cha thinkin’ there, Cas?”

Cas crowded into him, his breath ghosting over the side of Dean’s neck as he said, “I’m thinking, you should get on your back.” 

With that, Dean felt his entire body go slack. He turned his head, just a little, to look at Cas, and Cas took the opportunity to surge forward and crush their mouths together. Dean was jelly. That’s probably why it was so easy for Cas to tip them over and fall onto the mattress. He landed on top of Dean with a smack of skin that might had hurt if Dean hadn’t been so focused on how good it felt on his groin.

Cas mouthed at his collarbone, his fingers splayed and sinking into his chest. His thigh tucked itself between Dean’s and he moved it slowly up and down, causing just the right amount of friction through his jeans. Dean gasped, hips angling upward to meet the touch. Because those muscles—they weren’t of the same lean, wiry body that Jimmy Novak had accomplished. Cas had built up his own muscles over the years. Firm chest, big arms, solid thighs—and _damn_. Dean’s hand couldn’t even wrap fully around them.

He rubbed his palms down Cas’ spine, moving down and cupping around the curve of his ass. He kneaded with the heels of his palms, making Cas emit a choked sound. Their pants didn’t last long after that. They were discarded on the floor with the rest of their clothes until there was nothing left between them, just bare skin on bare skin.

Cas took his mouth again, his hands latching onto the Dean’s cheeks as he kissed him hard. Between them, Dean’s cock brushed against Cas’ leg, dragging fireworks of pleasure out of him. He felt Cas against his stomach, the hard line of him dipping and pressing each time he worked his hips.

He reached behind Cas, down low, and swept his hands along the inside of Cas’ parted legs. His knuckles tickled against the skin, smoothing along it. Cas broke the kiss long enough to breathe, “ _Dean_.”

Dean hummed and buried his nose into Cas’ collarbone. He kissed along the protrusion, sucking and licking marks into it. One hand stayed on the back of Cas’ thigh, rubbing and squeezing and teasing everywhere but the place he knew Cas wanted him to touch. The other cupped around the sharp angle of Cas’ hip, right under his tattoo, his thumb stroking the part that held the fading remnants of a love mark Dean had worked into it a few days prior. 

Cas’ long fingers were in Dean’s hair, scrambling as they sifted through it. Dean hooked his leg around Cas and flipped them. The dark shock of Cas’ hair was a contrast to the white sheets. Dean kissed along his chest, lips brushing over the pebbles of Cas’ nipples, the same damn shade of pink as his lips.

“Wait, wait,” Cas panted, making Dean lift off of him infinitesimally. He rolled onto his side beneath Dean and reached for the drawer of the nightstand. He fumbled around in it blindly for a few seconds before giving a frustrated grunt and turning over completely onto his stomach so he could reach further.

Dean took the opportunity to lay kisses on his shoulder blades, on the part of him his wings might be if Dean could see them, and down his vertebrae. For a little while, Cas stopped his search and let Dean kiss him. He hummed in contentedness, and Dean felt the vibration on his lips.

He laughed. “You like that?”

“It feels nice.”

Encouraged, Dean dipped down again. He loved this, finding new ways to make Cas feel good. It gave him a thrill, a prideful glee. It only doubled when Cas started rocking into the mattress, and Dean realized he was rocking into Cas, the tip of his cock brushing on his ass.

“Fuck, babe.”

Cas started digging through the drawer again and eventually pulled out the KY. There was still enough for a couple more rounds, but they’d have to pick up some more soon.

“What d’you want tonight?” Dean whispered into his hair. 

Cas seemed to consider it for a second, and then he lofted the tube in the air for Dean to take. “You.”

Dean snatched it from him probably a little too eagerly and snapped the cap. “Hell yeah.” Once his fingers were slick and warm, he reached down between Cas’ legs, making slow work of it. Cas always went too fast, and sometimes he forgot his own strength, and that Dean was just a human. The roughness was good most of the time, but Dean ensured to take his time whenever he worked Cas open. Just because he knew Cas was impatient. Just because he liked listening to Cas whine, liked seeing his muscles shift and his joints move under his skin as he clutched the sheets. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas said again, delirious.

“I gotcha,” Dean told him, feeling incoherent, and Cas rolled into his fingers, pushing him in deeper. “I gotcha, baby. Gonna make it so good.” He bent over and put his lips to Cas’ spine.

When he removed his fingers, Cas told him to wait again. “I want to see you,” he said, blunt as ever, making Dean flush. He turned over, locking onto Dean’s gaze, ever sloe-dark in the low light. Dean slid his hand up one of Cas’ legs until he reached his knee, and hooked it over his back. Cas’ hand went to Dean’s shoulder, gripping tight, when Dean pressed inside.

They breathed in together, and then instinct took over and Dean started to rock back and forth against him. Cas’ fingers clutched tighter onto him, and he gave a few choked out, aborted moans. The sounds went right through Dean, and he heard some noises echoing back to him that he was pretty sure he was making. He picked up the pace a little.

“Yeah, Cas, that’s it,” he breathed out. “Fuck! Feels so damn good." 

He didn’t even know what he was saying anymore. All he knew was that Cas was saying his name over and over again.

Cas’ dick was rubbing against his torso again, and he wanted to touch it if he wasn’t already so preoccupied keeping himself propped up. His elbows started to burn, but the pain was nothing compared to the sensation of Cas’ body tightening around him. He felt his own muscles going taut, too, a match being lit and set to a wick. 

After a while, their movements became more irregular, and Dean caught Cas’ gaze again. Cas’ lips were parted some, dry and chapped as he sucked in air. And it was nice to know Dean could make him sweat, even if he claimed angels didn’t do that. The moisture in his hair was proof enough.

The wick burned bright, and it wasn’t long until firecracker sparks flew throughout him. He heard Cas saying his name again, more urgent but in the throes of something nameless. Their skin was sticky now, as their movements slowed and they pressed in and out time and time again, trying to find the last little bursts of pleasure. 

And then Dean let his arms give out, and he rested his head on Cas’ shoulder to catch his breath. Cas’ hands came up to cradle the back of his head.

“Mmm, man,” Dean said after a minute. He pressed a final kiss to Cas’ chest before lifting his head to look up at him. Cas was searching his face with stars in his eyes, like all the sights in the universe couldn’t compare. He had a sated smile curving his lips, and Dean beamed back at him. Because, he didn’t know much about the universe, but he was sure nothing else _could_ compare to the sight of Cas so satisfied and content and roughed up.

“Hey, Cas. I think we’re gettin’ better at this,” Dean said, tone playful, light.

Cas’ frowned at him. “I thought we were always good at it.”

“Oh, we _were_. Now, we’re _great_.”

Cas rumbled a little with laughter and pressed a closed mouth kiss to Dean’s lips. When it broke, he cupped Dean’s cheek in his hand and stroked the bone with his thumb. “We are. We’re great.” 

Dean hummed and replaced his head on Cas’ chest. He just wanted to lay there for a little while before they had to get up to clean themselves. His ear rested over the place Cas’ heart was. He listened to it’s fast beats evening out. 

“We’re great,” he said again.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel turned over the last page in the book he'd been reading.  He knew there was nothing left, no more story to tell, but he enjoyed the notes from the author that would sometimes appear at the end of a book.  It was such a human thing to do, to wish to say goodbye to the world they’d lived inside for so long.  But it seemed this author wasn't so fanciful, because the last page was blank and unnecessarily present.

He dipped his head back against the headboard and looked at the window high up on the wall of the bedroom, seeing a sliver of infrared light and scattered stars and galaxies turning silently though void and dark matter.  It was still late, or early.  No one in the bunker would be awake for several more hours.  He sighed down at the back cover of the book resting between his hands and wondered how to fill the time now.  Perhaps there was another novel in the library.  He seemed to remember Sam bringing home some beaten up, faded paperbacks he'd purchased at the thrift store in town.

His eyes slid to the clock on Dean's nightstand—3:07AM, it read it angry red blocks—before moving slightly downwards.  Dean's back was to him as he lay on his side, the blanket tucked between his arm and ribs.  The strong line of his bare shoulders revealed a smattering of freckles that interested Castiel more than the stars outside the window.  Dean sighed in sleep, peaceful and heavy in a way Castiel hadn't seen since before Michael.  He would continue to sleep for as long as he was allowed, and Castiel was contented to let him.

Normally, Castiel didn't worry too much about waking Dean up as he moved about the room.  A lot of times, Dean slept through it; and, when he did wake up, he'd either grunt in annoyance or throw a curse over his shoulder telling Castiel to "pipe down" before falling right back to sleep.  But tonight, he did his best not to disturb Dean.  He gently swung his legs over the bed and bent down to find his boxers on the floor.  The closet door tended to creak if he opened it too wide, so he forwent picking out a t-shirt and opted instead to throw on the first thing his fingers connected with: the flannel Dean had been wearing the day before. 

He didn't bother to straighten out the collar where it bunched around his neck, and he was still buttoning it lopsidedly, his book tucked under his armpit, as he squeezed out of the door, carefully shutting it with one hand gripping the knob and the other pressed flat on the wood.  He turned towards the library before hearing a voice softly call out for him.

"Castiel?"

He looked over his shoulder to find John padding down the hallway, feet bare against the tile.  The sconces on the walls were dimmed for nighttime, but what little light they did give off cast John's shadow in all directions, making him look like a giant filling up the hall.  The walls seemed to have narrowed somewhat.

"Oh.  Hello, John," Castiel said, only slightly taken aback.  He wasn't used to anyone awake at this time; except, perhaps, Jack on occasion, but even he had been sleeping more since Lucifer robbed him of the majority of his grace.  "I didn't know anyone was up."

John grinned when he approached, flashing a set of white teeth.  It reminded Castiel very much of Dean's smile.  "Yeah, well, I guess being dead for twelve years makes a guy a bit of an insomniac."

"I can understand how that would trouble the mind, yes," Castiel agreed.

And there was a beat of uncomfortable silence that Castiel didn't exactly know what to do with.  John looked him up and down in the too-casual way Dean sometimes did that meant he was assessing how dangerous someone was.  Castiel shifted slightly, feeling exposed and awkward.  His vessel's skin crawled a little, and he found he didn't know how to continue the conversation.  He was about to turn away again when John said, "Hey, I thought that was Dean's room."

There was a question in the words, judging by the inflection in John's voice towards the end of the sentence.

"It is," Castiel told him.  "I stay in there on the nights we're both here."

John finally blinked, setting his head back a little.  "You sleep in there?"  His eyes briefly flashed to the door, as if he could see through the wood.

Castiel squinted at him.  "No.  As I said earlier, I don't sleep."

"So, what, you just—watch him sleep?"

Castiel wondered if that question was intrusive.  Sam or Mary had never asked it.  "No. He’s told me doing that is . . . creepy.  I watch television, mostly."  He took the book out from under his arm and brandished it.  "Or read." 

John was staring hard at him again, his face unreadable.  It only made Castiel narrow his eyes more.  Sam and Dean had told him many stories, good and bad, about their father over the years, painting him into a man Castiel thought he understood—in theory.  He saw now that he'd been wrong.  He wasn't certain of anything John was thinking.  Invisible, his wings bristled, itching to unfurl.

"And Dean—," John started again after a long time.  "He lets you?" 

Castiel tilted his head, perplexed by the question.  Did John assume Castiel snuck in there while Dean was asleep without him knowing?  Maybe that was why he was regarding Castiel in such a manner.  Wanting to assure him, Castiel said,  "Of course."

"Uh-huh."  John's expression was no less dark. His voice took on a strange cadence, almost a demand. “What is he to you? Dean.”

Castiel supposed the answer to that question was a complicated one. It always had been, but now more than ever. He found he wasn’t exactly sure how to answer. Dean was many things to him. His friend, his lover, his brother in arms, his link to humanity, his purpose; the reason he rebelled, the reason he fell, the reason he was still falling, even now, even after all this time. He didn’t know what word could be used to sum up his relationship to Dean. 

Dean would. Dean did. So, Castiel used Dean’s words: “Dean is my family.” 

John blinked again, and it looked like he wanted to say something else, but wouldn’t say it for another long while. But Castiel didn't have time to wonder what it was before something else drifted into his mind, pleasant and sweet, and a little sad.  It filtered in like a breeze, sweeping through him, welcomed on his skin.  It made him turn his head to the door, to the man beyond the door, and the corners of his lips turn upwards, though he didn't mean them to. 

"What?" John asked bruskly, breaking the reverie.

"Nothing.  It—it's Dean.  He's dreaming," Castiel said.  He usually wasn't attuned to Dean's dreams, but he always knew when Dean was dreaming of him.  It was like a prayer. 

He decided that he wouldn't find another book.  He wanted to curl up next to Dean and bask in the feeling.  "Excuse me," he said, and opened the door a crack before realizing he didn't know why John was wandering the halls.  If John was lost, he wished to help.  "Is there something you needed?"

It took a moment, but then John said, "Bathroom."

"It's at the end of the hall, to the left."

"Right."

Castiel nodded.  "Goodnight, John."

"Uh, yeah—," he half-heard John say as he slid back into the room.  He hardly noticed him trying to peer over his shoulder to see inside.  He was too focused on getting back to Dean.

 

///

 

Dean woke up to the grating, obtrusive foghorn of his alarm clock and two warm, solid arms around him. He leaned over to slap his hand on the first one with more force than strictly necessary to turn it off, and then immediately snuggled back into the second one. He closed his eyes again, even though the first rays of sunlight were painting the walls orange, even though there were things to do and he needed to get his ass up.

But Cas was as soft and comfortable as the bed beneath him and his still-sticky skin under the covers was sweetly warm. He shifted his feet a little, finding a cold patch on the mattress, and decided he should go back to sleep.

Cas’ toes brushed against the back of Dean’s ankle.

“Dean, an alarm clock generally means it’s time to wake up,” Castiel informed him, sounding way too awake for the hour. “There’s no point in setting it if you don’t.” 

“Won’t have’ta if your voice’s gonna be just as annoying,” he slurred against his pillow, closing his eyes tighter in an act of defiance.

“Dean.”

He sighed, knowing it was no use. “Fine,” he said, but instead of getting out of bed, he rolled to his other side and slung his arm around Cas. “Five more minutes.” 

“You should shower before you go.” Cas’ voice vibrated through Dean’s chest.

“That your way of saying I stink?” 

“Yes.”

“Your fault for making me sweat,” he yawned against Cas’ shoulder before nibbling at his collarbone, and then soothing the redness with a kiss.

Cas ignored him. “Sam and your mother are gone. I heard them leave earlier this morning. Jack texted me a few minutes ago asking when we were leaving. I’m sure your father will want to know the same.”

“Please don’t talk about my parents and Sam while we’re naked,” Dean groaned. It seemed like he asked Cas that too often, but he had to admit, it didn’t freak him out as much as it usually did when the words processed. _Your father. My parents._ That really did happen. He’d woken up in a world where they really were all together again, for the first time since Dean was four years old. 

The thought of it made him strangely giddy, like things could be different now. They could do things they were always meant to, things normal families did, like celebrate birthdays at fancy restaurants and Christmases with a tree and presents bought from actual stores instead of gas stations. Like getting a house in the suburbs and having Sunday dinners. Like going to the movies and baseball games. Like going on vacation. God, Dean would love a vacation.

There was so much to catch up on. It almost seemed in reach now.

“Man, I can’t wait for this shit with Michael to be over,” he mused, exhuming his face from Cas’ shoulder to look up at him for the first time. Cas’ eyes were extra blue and clear that morning, like crystal and topaz. “I say, after this, we all go to Hawaii. You, me, Sam and Jack, Mom and Dad.”

Castiel’s forehead wrinkled in a curious frown, so Dean decided to paint him a picture.

“I can just see it. Mom and Dad on the beach. Sammy taking one of those nerd research tours around a volcano. He’d probably drag Jack along with ‘im. You and me—,” he slid his palm up Cas’ back, “drinkin’ some of those frozen drinks at a tiki bar.” He pressed a closed mouth kiss to Cas’ lips, shutting his eyes into it and savoring it. “Seein’ a luau.”

“Dean, you’re deathly afraid of flying,” Cas reminded him.

Details, details. “I’ll take a Xanax—or six. It’ll be worth it. We don’t even need to go to the luau.” He hooked his knee around Cas’ hip and pressed them flush together. “We could just spend the whole trip in bed. Screw the beach.”

He kissed the corner of Cas’ mouth, and then his cheek, then his chin.

“Dean, we have to get up,” Cas said, but he didn’t sound like he was going to do anything about it. “If you go now, you’ll still have time for breakfast.” 

Dean hummed. He was a little hungry, but they probably wouldn’t be together until at least tomorrow, and he wanted to make the time they had left count. “I think we still got some of those Entenmann’s donuts left. I’ll grab one of those.” Unless Sam ate the last cinnamon one. Dean hated the plains.

“I keep telling you to stop eating those. They’re made with chemicals, Dean, and your blood pressure is high enough as it is.”

They had this argument so often, Dean nearly rolled his eyes. “Sorry, doc, I promise to eat more broccoli.”

“It _would_ be nice.”

“And do more cardio,” he said into another kiss, this one reciprocated. “Wanna help out?”

He rolled against Cas again, and was able to feel the hard press of him against the cotton of his boxers. It felt so damn delicious, so he did it again, and that time Cas chased the motion with his hips.

“That’s right, babe,” Dean encouraged, keeping up the movement. “Just like that.”

They moved slowly against each other at first, coming together and drawing apart languidly, working up a friction. Dean hummed, and gasped in a breath. He felt his muscles constricting and relaxing in turn.

“How’s that? That good?” he asked.

Cas nodded, his tongue darting out to wet his lips and his eyes closing. “Yeah. That—It’s good.”

After that, Cas pulled him into a kiss, lazy and breathy and humid. Dean groaned into it as their pace sped up. He reached down under the covers to pull Cas’ boxers down, and Cas scrambled to help him. It was better when they were off, feeling their cocks slide together as they rutted into each other. 

Cas gripped his arm, sinking the pads of his fingers into Dean’s skin. Dean circled his arms under his and hooked his hands around the curve of his shoulders. When he needed to breathe, he broke away and buried his forehead into Cas’ neck, drinking in his scent.

Their movements started to get choppier, harder to control, and Dean felt his body tightening. He could feel his pulse in his toes, in his thighs. Cas started breathing in the way he did before he was about to come. 

“Love you,” Dean muttered against him.

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas bit out, his voice low and gritty.

Dean came first, just after that, his teeth on the curve of Cas’ shoulder. Cas wasn’t far behind. They rode out the aftershocks together, until their hips slowed and the only sounds left were ragged breaths they tried to desperately to catch.

“Whooo,” Dean exclaimed when he finally had the air in his lungs to do so. He rolled onto his back, letting the memory foam straighten out the kinks in his spine, and gave a soft laugh. “Think that’ll hold us over until tomorrow night?” he joked, as the opening riff of _Love Me Two Times_ popped into his head. It’d probably be stuck there all day now. 

“No,” was the answer, spoken with the usual sincerity that made it hard for Dean to tell if Cas was joking or not. It made him laugh again, anyway.

“Alright, then I’ll expect some pretty sexy texts from you later.”

Speaking of texts, Cas’ phone his nightstand lit up, dancing under its own vibration. He reached over for it and lifted the screen up so he could see it on the table. Dean turned on his side and rested his cheek on Cas’ chest. He saw it was a reminder for a message received two minutes ago. They hadn’t even heard it the first time. 

“It’s Jack,” Cas said, sliding the message bar until the phone unlocked with a clicking sound. “He’s asking if we’re awake.”

“Oh, yeah, ‘cause you sleep in all the time.”

As Dean kissed his chest, Cas typed out an answer with one thumb, taking doubly as long as it would a normal person to write.

 _Yes. Coming now._  

“Uh, no Cas, you already came.” 

Castiel set the phone back down and shot Dean a look. “I don’t think Jack would appreciate knowing that.”

Dean laughed, “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Reluctantly, he pulled himself off of Cas and sat up. He stretched his arms, holding one at the elbow and pushing it down behind his head. 

“Dean, you will be careful today?” Cas asked, suddenly more somber. Dean swiveled around to look at him. “You won’t engage any of the angels if it isn’t safe?”

Dean wanted to say something sarcastic, but Cas’ eyes were big and pleading, so he settled for, “Yeah, Cas, quit worryin’.” He pat Cas’ knee under the blanket. “Now, stop trying to keep me in bed all day. We got work to do.”

Cas rolled his eyes, and the two of them got up, cleaned themselves off, and dressed. Dean shoved a change of clothes and his toiletry bag into his duffle. And he pressed one last kiss to Cas’ lips before they left the room.

 

///

 

It was a fourteen-hour drive to Lancaster. Dean drove the first half, only stopping at highway rest stops and gas stations off the exits to fill up the tank and chug down vending machine coffee that was either too bitter or pre-mixed with too much artificial sweeteners.

John drove the rest of the way, and it was good to see him behind the wheel of the Impala again. Dean tried to sneak a picture, but it was blurry with motion and his arm blocked the lower half. They didn’t talk much during the drive, except about what route to take and what traffic might be like. (It was rare that Dean saw his father rendered with disbelief, but the traffic tracker on Google Maps seemed to do the trick.) 

They listened to music, dug into a bag of original flavored Bugles that John loved and Dean hadn’t eaten since he died, played Slug-a-Bug and the License Plate Game, pointed out horses and cattle and goats in the passing fields, and laughed at billboards threatening eternal damnation if they didn’t repent on the rural side of the road. And, for a second, Dean almost lost himself to nostalgia; he was twenty-five again. It felt like the old days, when it was just to two of them and the road, when Sam was still away at Stanford and they were crossing the country towards a hunt.

He spent half the car ride biting his tongue so he wouldn’t blurt out how good it was to have John back. And how he’d do anything to keep him back. How his life had been in a steady downward spiral since he died and now, just like that, Dean felt safe again—like everything would be okay in end. How they could be a family again—or for the first time. The six of them.

By the time the sun went down and the headlights cut through the night like a pair of eyes, conversation had dwindled to nothing. Dean spent most of the time on his phone, carefully tilting it away from the reflection on the window while still ensuring John couldn’t see the screen. He scrolled through databases and encyclopedias and online books and thirteen friggin’ pages of search results. But he didn’t find what he was looking for, or anything he didn’t already know. 

Occasionally, his eyes flickered up to look at John, driving silently in the shadows, before looking back down to refine his search words in hopes of something new popping up. The only links ever provided were already highlighted in a dull purple font.

It was late when they finally made it to Lancaster. They pulled into the first motel they saw, some twenty-four-hour place that definitely had roaches, and put their bags down before finding a diner. They’d poke around town for the Hand after they got a little fuel in them.

The diner was mostly empty by that time of night—just the staff, a few teens at the counter slurping milkshakes, a guy at a corner table staring intently into his coffee like his wife had just left him for someone who didn’t hang out at diners at 10PM, and the smell of grease.

They slid into a booth near the window, and Dean was still absorbed into his phone, now of page thirty-seven of search results. John busied himself with a menu plucked from the holder on the end of the table, and made the huffing sound he tended to make when he was tired. It made Dean smile a little. He’d forgotten about that.

A text ribbon from Cas popped up on the top of his screen. 

_Jack and I have arrived in Billings._

An emoji of a cat smiling ended the message for some reason, which made Dean shake his head, wondering why he was sleeping with that guy.

 _OK_ , Dean typed back. _Just got to Lancaster. Grabbing a bite to eat before we head out._

A new message came in less than five seconds later: _Be careful._

 _Yes, HONEY._  

Cas texted him back an emoji of a bee, and Dean didn’t know whether to smile or roll his eyes, so he ended up doing both.

“Dean,” John said, his voice gruff and annoyed. Dean looked up to find he’d set the menu aside. “Are you gonna be on that thing all night?”

Dean almost laughed at how much of a dad thing that was to say. “Sorry,” he said, clicking the sleep button on the side of the phone and putting it in his pocket. 

“What have you been doing this whole time, anyway?”

Like hell Dean was about to tell him the real answer. He deflected with, “Just got a text from Cas. They made it to Montana.” 

Before John could answer, their waitress sidled up to their booth. She probably wasn’t much older than the milkshake teens, with curly black hair and red lipstick on an otherwise bare, plump face. There was a mustard stain on her uniform. “What can I get you boys?”

“Two coffees, black,” John said, “and the meatloaf for me.” Dean could practically finish the order for him: “With a side of mashed.”

“Coming right up,” she told him with a smile, jotting down the order on her notepad.

“Thanks, sweetheart.” 

She turned to Dean. “And for you, hon?” 

Dean hadn’t looked at the menu, but he didn’t need to. He’d been to enough diners that he could probably guess what was on it. And he usually ordered the same thing at all of them. “Cheeseburger. Thanks.”

“Comes with fries, sweet potato fries, or a salad.” 

 _Fries_ , was on the tip of his tongue before he remembered what Cas had said about his blood pressure that morning. He’d been doing his damnedest to correct that recently by making Dean eat better. Usually, all it took was a sour look that made Dean’s life miserable for the rest of the day every time he brought home take out.

Cas wasn’t there, so he could probably cheat, but the thought made him guilty. Still, there was no way he was ordering a salad, so he figured Cas could meet him half way.

“Sweet potato fries,” he decided on, and those were three words he never thought he’s say. The crazy things you do for love. 

“You got it,” the waitress said. She took their menus and trotted off to the kitchen, and that was when Dean noticed John giving him a humored look. 

“You on a diet or something?” he teased.

“What?” Dean said, his voice shooting up an octave or two in defense. “No!”

John was practically laughing now. “Sweet potato fries? You? I wasn’t dead that long, was I?”

Dean grumbled, wishing he had just ordered the damn regular fries, but he guessed it was too late now. “No, it’s—Cas keeps yellin’ at me for the stuff I eat. Says he’s worried about my sodium intake or whatever.” 

The laughter lines on John’s face dropped and evened out. “Cas, huh?” he repeated, and Dean felt himself blush a little. He looked down at the table to get himself under control, but John’s focus stayed on him. “Guess you two are pretty close.” 

“Guess so,” Dean muttered, clearing is throat. He wanted to steer the conversation away from Cas immediately, but as usual, things didn’t go his way. 

John folded his arms on the table in front of him and leaned into them. He shrugged casually. “How long you and Sam known him for? And the boy?”

Dean averted his eyes to the place under the window. There were a few half-full bottles of condiments, packets of sugar, and a single fake flower in a tiny glass vase. He picked up the ketchup bottle, and set it back down when he remember how much germs were on those things. He wiped his hand on the front of his jacket before beginning to gently pull at the flower’s synthetic leaves. He gave a shrug of his own.

“Cas? God. Must be ten years now.” It was a little strange to think about. It seemed longer, like Cas had always been in his life. He couldn’t picture a time before he knew Cas’ eyes staring into his. And it felt shorter, too, as he remembered the very first time Cas stared at him—into him, through him—like it was yesterday.

He shoved the memory down, not wanting it written on his face, but John saw it anyway. “What’s that look?”

“Nothin’,” Dean said, letting out a sardonic laugh. “He was just a real douche when we first met him. All warrior of Heaven on a holy mission and all that crap.” He waved it away before it got too personal. “Anyway—as for Jack, a little over a year now. I’m sure Mom told you all about that.” 

John nodded. “She did.” 

Their waitress came by with their coffees. They both glanced at her and shot her appreciative smiles before she disappeared again. Dean hoped the interlude would change the subject, but John picked up his coffee, raised it to his lips, and said from behind the mug, “You sure they can be, you know—trusted?” 

Dean’s stomach churned, and he steeled his jaw so it wouldn’t show. “Yeah, Dad. ‘Course I am.”

“Relax,” John said sternly. “I’m just making sure my boys and my wife are okay.”

“We _are_.” 

“Because, from what your mother’s told me—from what I’ve _seen_ —the angels aren’t the good guys. They’re just like the rest of the things we hunt.” 

Dean felt the muscles in the back of his neck tense with the beginning of a headache, and frustration brewing in his temples. He put his elbow on the table and rubbed at his eye to stop it from forming. “Not Cas. He’s different.”

“How?”

“Just different.” Some of the anger seeped into his voice then. He wanted to tell John that he wasn’t a kid anymore, and that John had been gone for a long time. But he didn’t want to think about that. John was there. They were there. Together. Like the old days. “Can we not do this right now, Dad?” 

“It’s just a question, Dean. If he’s part of your lives, I want to know a little about him. Is that okay with you?”

Okay, so it was _exactly_ like the old days. 

Dean tried to reel himself in. “He’s just different, okay? I dunno. I mean, he’s practically human!” John seemed less than convinced. He sipped his coffee again, and Dean didn’t know why that made him want to keep filling the silence. “I mean, sure, the guy’s made a few mistakes in the past, but which one of us hasn’t?”

John raised his eyebrows, interested. “What kind of mistakes?”

Maybe that was a stupid thing to have said. “Nothing he hasn’t made up for.”

“What mistakes?”

Dean sighed, knowing there was no way John was just going to drop it without getting an answer. As much as Dean didn’t want to rehash it, he licked his lips and stared idly over at the teens at the counter. 

“Few years back, after the—,” he dropped his voice, “apocalypse—that he helped us stop, by the way. Probably couldn’t’ve done it without him. Anyway, after that, he kinda, tried to show the other angels they were free now. He became like, the head honcho upstairs.” 

He risked a look at John, whose expression stayed neutral.

“But there was this—it was another archangel. Raphael. Him and Cas had some beef. He wanted to get the Doomsday Clock ticking again. It led to a civil war up there. Cas did—,” he scoffed, some of the anger and sadness he’d felt the day he learned about Cas’ betrayal spiking in his chest. “Some pretty fucked up shit to win. He kinda went nuclear. And—.”

He stopped himself. John didn’t need to know the rest. But John dipped his head, fishing for Dean’s eyes. “ _And_?” 

“And Sam got mixed up in it,” he admitted. “Got hurt real bad.”

“ _What_?” John demanded, features full of righteous fury. Dean knew that look. It was the same one John had given him when he was kid, in Fort Douglas, after the Shtriga almost got Sam. 

“Like I said, it was a mistake.”

“Hurting your brother isn’t a _mistake_ , Dean,” he said, like a lecture, like a scolding. Like Dean needed to be told again to _watch out for Sammy_.

“He’s not that guy anymore, okay? He learned his lesson,” Dean defended. “He’s—.” 

“Different. Right.” 

“Family,” Dean corrected, finally able to meet his father’s eyes, which looked about as surprised as an ex-Marine-become-hunter would ever let them. “He’s family.” Dean leaned forward, trying to salvage this somehow. “You’ll see. Just give him a chance, Dad. You’ll like him. Mom _loves_ him. So does Sam. Forgave him a long time before I did.” 

The waitress interrupted to set down their plates, and Dean was happy for the distraction the usual waitress chitchat provided. But, when she left again, John still looked wary. Still, he nodded. “Alright. Alright, son, I’m trusting you.”

“Good,” Dean said, relieved, even if his gut was still sloshing and he felt worse than he had in a long time. But at least _that_ conversation was over.

 

///

 

The Men of Letters chapter house was a fifteen-minute drive outside of town, and apparently had a reputation among the locals as being haunted.  "That old place the kids are always trying to break into?" their waitress had asked, nose scrunched, when Dean had asked her for directions.  She shrugged as she topped off his coffee.  "Why do you wanna go there for?"

"The house actually belonged to a general who fought the local Natives after the Indian Removal Act was passed," John had lied smoothly, flashing her an innocent smile.  "We're kinda history buffs.  Thought we'd take a peek."

"Oh, yeah?  That general got what was coming to him?"

John laughed easily.  "Killed in battle."

The waitress seemed pleased by that, and told them how to get to the house.  Before they left the diner, Dean asked, "Hey, you said kids try to break in?  Any of them ever do it?"

"You know, I don't think they have," she said, as if she'd never really thought about it.  And Dean was relieved that whatever freaky contents housed inside were safe from the general public.  "It's like that place doesn't want anyone inside." 

The house was set up on a small hill in a wooded area, its closest neighbor five acres away.  Dean drove up the overgrown driveway to the front door and killed the engine.  Looking at the place, he understood why people thought it had ghosts.  It looked like every haunted house stereotype he could think of: a mansion in the middle of the woods, a balcony with rotted planks and chipped paint, boarded up doors and windows, graffiti sprayed on the outer walls, and caution tape warning people to stay out.  There was even a tower on the top that was a perfect home for easily startled bats.

John got out of the car, cutting a shadow into the beam of the headlights as he walked around to the porch; Dean followed, fishing his key to the bunker out of his pocket.  Once they got the board covering the front door off, the key opened it easily.  Dean turned on his flashlight and pointed it into the entrance, watching the dust swirl.

The dust was everywhere—caked on to the floors and thick atop the coat racks and the chandelier.  Dean ran a finger along the top of the table near the entrance, leaving a clean streak in his wake.  He pulled a face at the dust on his finger and brushed it off on his jeans.

"How many places did the Men of Letters have, anyway?" John asked, shining his own light around.  It bounced off a dark mirror before gliding to the next room, where a few leather chairs a couch were situated in front of a fireplace.

Dean didn't really have an answer for that.  He knew Sam would probably readily be able to rattle off a few numbers—of bunkers, chapter houses, safe houses, whatever.  Dean usually just went where Sam pointed when it came to this stuff.  "I dunno, a lot?  We've been to one other bunker in Rhode Island.  And they're in England, too.  Still have their organization up and running.  Met a bunch'a those douchebags.  Not sure if other countries had 'em." 

John shook his head, padding further into the house.  "I tell ya, the things you don't know about your own dad." 

Dean licked his lips, watching the shadows on John's shoulders, as he thought about all the mysteries he and Sam had pieced together about him after he died.  Adam Milligan popped into his mind, a twinge of guilt along with him, but he figured it was better to keep his mouth shut.  "Yeah, don't I know it," he muttered under his breath, as low as his voice could go while still making sound. 

John didn't seem to hear him.  He turned around on his heels.  "So, where do we start looking for this thing?" 

They split up, John taking the offices further into the house on the first floor, and Dean going up. 

The stairs creaked as they brought him upstairs; but the only rooms on the second level were dorms, two twin beds on either sides of the room with a writer’s desk between them.  Dean went through the torn open envelopes and notepads on the desk and rifled through the dresser drawers, mostly empty except for some forgotten articles of clothing.  As far as Dean could see, there wasn't anything in the old house that couldn't be left behind.  Definitely not a Hand of God.

The attic housed boxes of scientific tools from the fifties and board games from the forties.  There was a telescope still angled towards the window, and a large composite picture of the chapter members from 1948 in a cracked frame propped up against the wall.  Dean shone his flashlight on the sepia-toned, unsmiling faces of the stuffy men in the pictures, and one pissed off cat named Montgomery.  Most of the men were in suits, but one wore a priest's collar.

"Hey, Dean?" he heard from the first floor.  He left the attic, moving through hallway, and came to a stop at the top of the carpeted stairs.  John was at the bottom.  "Think I found something.  Why don't you come on down here?" he said, and Dean obediently hustled down to meet him.

John had an old photograph in his hands, black and white and a little torn at the edges.  It depicted two men standing in front of a church: one that Dean didn't know; the other was Henry Winchester.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Dean searched John's face, checking if he was okay.  John gave away no emotion.

"This was in a filing cabinet in one of the offices. It documented the visits of the Men of Letters that didn't belong to this chapter.  This was taken on Dad's first and last visit here, in fifty-six." 

"Same year he hid the Hand of God," Dean recalled.

John pointed to the church in the background of the shot.  "I saw that church when we were driving through town.  I'm thinking that's where he hid the Hand."

Dean nodded, remembering the priest in the composite photo upstairs.  "Yeah, I'd put money on it."

"Alright.  Call you mother and Sam.  Tell 'em to haul ass here.  You and me'll scope out the church tomorrow while we wait for them," John decided as he started out of the house.  He left the photo on the entrance table before walking out the door. 

Dean cast it another look, a little remorseful for leaving a picture of Henry behind like that, before following him out.  He dug for his phone and the bunker key at the same time.  One handed, he thumbed at his text messages and clicked on the last conversation thread, just because it was easiest as he fumbled to lock the door.  He called the number. 

Cas picked up on the third ring.  "Dean?" 

"Hey.  We think we found it," he said.  John was already in the car.  Dean slid into the driver's seat, phone squished between his shoulder and ear as he put on his seat belt. 

"You're sure?"  Cas' voice was as rough as sandpaper over the airwaves and, damn it, Dean missed him. 

"Pretty sure.  So, get here as fast as you can.  I'll text you the address of the hotel." 

"Okay," Cas said, and then, "Dean, don't do anything until the rest of us get there.  There will be angels."  Yeah, like he hadn't thought of that. 

Dean rolled his eyes.  Cas worried too much, but he guessed it was endearing, even if it was also annoying.  "Yeah, Cas, I heard you the first eighty times," he said, and noticed John swiftly look over at him out of the corner of his eye.  It made him blush nervously for some reason, and he cleared his throat to push it down. 

Cas sighed over the line.  "We'll be there soon.  I love you."

Dean's face heated up even more, and he surreptitiously looked over to make sure John hadn't heard that.  "Yeah, me too," he answered vaguely.  "See you soon." 

When the call ended, he thumbed through his contacts for Sam's number.  With his other hand, he put the car into drive.  As he hit the call button, John said, "So, Castiel and Jack are on their way?"  There was something biting in his town around the names that Dean made a point to ignore. 

He backed up quickly, tires hitting the lawn to the side of the cracked tar, before taking off down the hill.  "Got about a day's drive ahead of them, but yeah."

Thankfully, Sam picked up before John could say anything else.  That didn't stop him from humming in something akin to disapproval.  Dean just kept driving.

 

///

 

It was late when Castiel and Jack finally pulled into the motel parking lot in Lancaster, Ohio. They’d left the moment they received Dean’s phone call, and didn’t get in until a little under twenty-fours hours later. Sam and Mary had arrived a few hours earlier, but only because they slept before leaving Amarillo. Not for the first time, Castiel was thankful angels didn’t require such things. They only stopped along the way when Jack was hungry or needed to relieve himself, or when the car’s tank was empty, and Castiel’s anticipation mounted with every drive through window and gas station in which they detoured.

There was a time when he could have been across the country with a thought, but his wings hung tattered and useless at his back, and Jack didn’t have enough power to carry the both of them so many miles. 

It was after midnight when they knocked on the door with the number Dean had texted to him, where John and Dean had slept the night before. It would now to go Sam and Jack. They’d already booked two other rooms, one for John and Mary and a second for Dean and Castiel. Sam let them in, Castiel saw the keys to the other rooms on the nightstand between the beds.

All four Winchesters were present: Mary sitting at the small table in the corner of the room, and Sam moving to take back his place across from her; Dean on the end of far bed, both boots firmly on the floor, leaning into his knees as he sat atop the filthy comforter; John leaning against the wall next to the dresser, his head bent, his eyes glaring upward when Castiel and Jack came fully into the room and closed the door behind them. 

“Great, gang’s all here,” Dean said as Jack moved further inside and dropped his duffle bag on the floor at the foot of the nearest bed. 

From the air of the room, Castiel gathered they’d interrupted something—most likely the formation of a strategy. “What’s the plan?” he asked. 

“Well, we _had_ a plan,” Sam said, forlorn. Castiel frowned. 

“Yeah, that was before the entire population of Heaven decided to roll into town,” Dean explained, but it hardly gave Castiel any more information.

“What?”

It was John who answered. “In the last twenty-four hours, angels have been flooding the town. They must know the weapon is here.”

Castiel looked down, searching the floor. The anxiety he felt before doubled, his vessel’s nerves frayed and his grace roaring beneath. 

“How?” Jack asked, mirroring Castiel’s own disbelief. “Castiel and I didn’t see any angels on the way in.”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” said Mary. She swiveled to look at John. “Are you _sure_ you weren’t followed to the church?”

“No way,” Dean said. “We were careful.”

“You can’t be certain,” Castiel told him. “An angel could have seen you and you wouldn’t have even known.”

“He said, we were careful,” John spoke up. “We know how to do our job.” 

Castiel cocked his head to the side and looked at him. “Well, apparently, they found out the Hand is here somehow.” He didn’t mean to be short, but he was weary from the drive and they were losing time arguing about whether or not they were followed. The angels knew; it didn’t matter how. 

“Yeah, somehow,” John said.

“Yeah, only question is, does Michael know?” Sam said with a scoff, making the room fall silent. Castiel looked at Dean to check on him. As always, the mention of the name made him tense momentarily. 

“We have to assume he does. He could be here already.”

“Then, why haven’t they gone for it yet?” Dean asked. “Me and Dad were scouting out the area all day, and they’re not making a move.”

Castiel shrugged. “They could be waiting.” 

“For Michael?” Mary asked. 

“Or for us,” Sam said. In the gloom, his eyes were shifting back and forth in the way they did when he was thinking. “The weapon’s warded. They could be waiting for us to be stupid enough to show up and get it for them.” 

“Oh, well, that’s a cheery thought,” Dean said curtly. 

Jack sat down on the other bed, crossing his legs and putting his hands on his knees, posture straight. He was thinking, too, just as Sam was. “We’ll have to fight,” he landed on.

“Not if we don’t have to,” said John. “There are too many of them. We’ll need to sneak in and out. That means, a few us go in and get the thing, and a few of us act as look outs to tell the others where to go.” 

“I agree with that,” said Mary. “John, you have to go in. We might need your blood to get it in the first place.”

“I’ll go with him,” said Dean, “Cas, too. You can tell us what’s warded in the church. Could narrow down the search so we aren’t in there too long. Sam, Mom, Jack, you’ll be our eyes and ears.”

Castiel didn’t like it. There were too many things they didn’t know, too many risks that the Winchesters, in their stubbornness, wouldn’t acknowledge. “No. This is foolish.” 

“Cas—.”

“ _Dean_. Michael could be here. Not only will he be after your father, he’ll come for you. He knows he’s most powerful with you as his vessel, and I won’t risk that.” 

Dean rolled his eyes petulantly. “I’d never say yes.”

“You did before.” It was too harsh, Castiel knew it by the way Dean closed his eyes and turned away. But it was also true. There were a million ways Michael could force him to say yes. Torture, maybe. Torturing Mary or John or Sam, Jack or even Castiel, definitely.

“Whoa,” John said, leaning up off the wall. “Don’t tell my boy what he will and won’t do.”

“I’m trying to look out for your _boy_.” He looked to Sam and Mary for support. “It’s clear the angels can’t get to the Hand yet. That buys us some time.”

“For what?” Sam asked, and thank God for him. He may have been the only one who actually ever listened. But Castiel knew he wouldn’t like what he heard.

Gritting his teeth, he said, “We need to find out if the angels _know_ the weapon is here, or if they just followed us. And we need to know where Michael is. If I can get a message to Naomi—.”

“Cas, no, come _on_!” Dean argued immediately. 

Castiel raised his voice to speak over him. “She could help us. She could give us the information we need.”

“Or she could screw us!”

Castiel sighed heavily, and turned to Dean. “I’m being cautious.”

“You’re being a dumbass!” 

“Wait, _who’s_ Naomi?” John asked. 

“No one we need,” Dean barked, his glare still on Castiel. Castiel glared back. “She’s got no reason to help us. None. You can’t trust her. You go to her now, she could just try to mind control you again, man. She’s basically already doing it!”

“No, she isn’t. This isn’t like last time.”

“Bull _shit_ it isn’t.” He shook his head furiously. “You can’t let her fuck with your head.”

John moved into the center of the room, angling himself between Dean and Castiel. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he demanded from his son. In his periphery, Castel saw Sam sit up straighter, more alert. “You said we could trust him.” 

Dean shook his head again, this time without any heat. “We can.” 

But it fell on deaf ears. John rounded on Castiel. “Is someone pulling your strings?”

“Of course not.” Castiel grunted, frustrated. “This conversation is pointless.” 

“Is it?” John asked. “When was the last time you saw this Naomi?”

Castiel thought back. It was when Dean was still possessed. “Months ago.”

“How many months?” 

Castiel narrowed his eyes. He didn’t appreciate the suspicion. 

“Dad,” Sam said, half-cautious and half-warning.

“What, Sam? You don’t want to know? He could be lying. For all we know, he could have been the one to tell the angels where the Hand is.”

Castiel didn’t know what to say; he froze. Thankfully, Sam and Mary didn’t.

“Oh, John, don’t be ridiculous,” she dismissed. 

At the same time, Sam said, “Dad, come on, this is stupid.”

But Castiel barely heard them. He was zeroed in on Dean, whose eyes were downcast. He stayed quiet. Castiel felt his human heart pounding against his ribcage. 

“Dean,” he choked out, suddenly very afraid. When Dean looked up at him, his eyes were expressionless and his jaw was tensed. _No_. “Dean. I’m me. You know that.” Dean knew _him_ , better than anyone. Dean would see. Dean would put an end to this. 

“When _was_ the last time you saw her, Cas?” he asked, and Castiel felt a pressure behind his eyes that was purely human. “Was it when I was still with Michael? Because things have been— _different_ since I got back.”

A strange kind of weightlessness swept over Castiel, so different than flying. It was heavy. It reminded him of when he was human, when Dean had told him he couldn’t stay in the bunker. He’d been alone and afraid and weak and didn’t know what to do. He’d felt sick with it. He’d gotten halfway to the main road on foot before throwing up in the grass.

That same swift, swooping sensation overtook him now. 

After all this time, after everything—how could he not see how much Castiel loved him? Was he really so ready to believe this was just another betrayal? 

“How can you think that?”

“How can he not?” John said, drawing Castiel’s attention. He wished at once John Winchester stayed in his grave. “You talk about the angels like you’re not one of them, but you are. I mean, at least the boy’s _half_ human, even if the other half is the Devil.” 

Jack stared up in abject horror and guilt, like he’d done something wrong—like this existence was wrong. Sam jumped to his feet. “Dad!” 

“John!” Mary yelled at the same time.

Castiel stepped in front of Jack, holding himself like a barricade in front of John. “You leave him out of this,” he warned through his teeth, his voice like thunder and lightning and stone. 

“Or what?” John challenged, raising his chin. Castiel felt his grace crackling on his fingertips.

“Okay, _enough_!” Sam roared. “We’re not the ones who should be fighting. We should be going after _Michael_ , remember?” 

John looked at Sam over Castiel’s shoulder. “I’m just trying to make you boys see what you’ve been letting into your lives for the past decade. You might treat him like he’s a human, but he’s not. He’s a monster, just like the rest of them.”

Sam stood frozen, shoulders back. Mary was looking at John with her mouth agape.

It was Dean, finally, who said, quietly, “Dad—.” But it didn’t appear as if he was going to finish that sentence.

“ _What_?” John angled himself to face Dean. “You’re the one who said he was on the wrong side when you first met him. And that he betrayed you—hurt Sam.”

The words hit Castiel square in the chest. 

Sam stilled. “You told him about that?”

Dean opened his mouth like he was going to say something, his gaze flashing to Castiel guiltily, and he sucked in a breath. “I didn’t say it like that.”

“He _went nuclear_. Your words.”

Castiel’s heart plummeted. He thought he’d redeemed himself to Dean. He thought Dean had forgiven him. He was obviously mistaken. He’d been too hopeful. Why would Dean ever forgive him for that?

Dean licked his lips. “Okay. I also said he’s family.”

“He’s not your family, Dean. _We’re_ your family,” John maintained. “That doesn’t change, even if you think he’s in love with you.”

Dean’s head jolted up so quickly, it much have hurt. His eyes were shocked and scared and maybe even a little ashamed. Castiel’s forehead crumpled. Dean had never reacted that way about them before. 

“Okay, okay,” Sam said, stepping between John and Castiel in attempt to diffuse the situation. “Can we just—Cas, can you and Jack give us a second?”

Castiel knew what that meant. _Leave_. He wanted to say no. He _was_ going to say no. He snatched a hotel room key off the nightstand and placed it in Jack’s hand. Jack stood up, waiting for instruction. “Go to mine and Dean’s room. Wait for me there.” 

“You’re,” Jack asked, confused and a little worried, “not coming, too?” 

“Yes, he is,” Dean answered, earning himself a scornful look. He withered under it. “Cas. Please?” 

Again, Castiel wanted to say no on principle alone, but he shepherded Jack out the door. He shot Dean a glare over his shoulder as he left, and John an even more intense one. Sam thinned his lip in apology and nodded to them and they left the room. He closed the door behind them.

Castiel kept his hand on Jack’s shoulder until they were in the next room, grounding himself. He didn’t want to let go. He wanted to know there was one thing—just _one person_ —who didn’t think any differently of him.

Jack turned around to face him, away from the single bed in the room. Castiel placed his hand again on Jack’s shoulder. “He doesn’t trust us,” Jack said. 

Castiel shook his head angrily, and sadly. He wished he could have shielded Jack from that. “No.”

“Neither did Dean,” Jack told him. “After I was born, Dean didn’t trust me. But I proved myself to him. We can prove ourselves to John, too.” 

No. This wasn’t Jack’s fault. He didn’t need to bear that responsibility. “Jack. You don’t need to prove anything to that man.”

Jack’s brows furrowed. “But Sam, Dean, and Mary—they care about him?”

Reluctantly, Castiel nodded. He wished the answer were different. “Yes.”

“And we care about them.” 

“Yes.” He wished the answer were different—sometimes. But it never would be. Even if it hurt.

“Then,” Jack said, as if he were putting together the pieces of a puzzle, focusing hard. “We owe it them to try, even if he won’t.”

He said it like it was so simple. Castiel didn’t have the heart to tell him it wasn’t. He let his hand slide off Jack’s shoulder. “Get some sleep,” he said. “We’ve had a long drive. Tomorrow will be longer.” If they’re allowed to stay, that is. 

Jack nodded, and went into the bathroom. A moment later, the sound of the sink’s faucet sounded, muffled by the door. Castiel looked at the wall separating himself from Dean, and listened to the voices beyond.

 

///

 

It was quiet for a long time after Cas and Jack left.  And too still.  Sam kept standing by the door, hands on his hips and a pissed off expression slanting his mouth, acting like a barricade in case John tried to go after them.  That should have been Dean.  Dean should have been putting himself between his father and his angel.

Mary was still at the table, torso twisted to keep both Sam and John in her periphery, one arm slung over the back of her chair, head bowed in thought. 

About two feet in front of Dean, John stood opposite Sam, arms hanging at his sides but still intimidating. 

Dean did his best to not make any noise, to not break the stillness that held them in a suffocating limbo.  He was afraid that, if he did, the room would erupt.  This isn't how he pictured things.  This isn't what he wanted when they were all together.  He wanted them to be on the same page, just once, just for a little while.

He guessed that was too much to ask in his life.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Sam said at last, voice low and livid.

And they're off . . . 

"Me?  What the hell have you boys been thinking?" John shot back.  "Making friends with angels and witches.  I raised you to be smarter than that." 

Sam let out a sardonic sound.  "Right, and because you don't like something, it’s automatically stupid." 

"No, Sam.  Because you're deliberately putting your trust in things that could turn on you in a second!  Next thing, you'll tell me you've been working with demons."

Sam and Mary shared a look, and they must have decided not to mention Crowley.

"You've let these things into your home, Sam.  That witch that brought me back could have easily killed you and run off with God knows what that’s in that bunker."

"Yeah, exactly, but she didn't," Sam argued.  "She brought you back.  You're acting like it was a one-sided deal.  As long as Rowena's getting what she wants, we can control her."

"And what happens when you can't?"

"Then, we'll deal with her!" 

"Deal with her like you dealt with Jack?"  Dean braced himself.  Whatever John said next would be enough for Sam to lose it completely.  "You hear about Satan knocking some woman up, you're suppose to kill the thing, not raise it."

Sam ground his teeth, managing to keep it together better than Dean had expected.  "I'm glad we didn't!  Jack is nothing like Lucifer!  Trust me.  I _knew_ Lucifer!" 

Dean felt sick.  He didn't want to think about that.  He didn't want to think about how he should have protected Sam from that. Lucifer was dead and Sam was still scared of him—would never stop being scared of him.  Dean should have taken better care of him. 

 _Watch out for Sammy_. That had been his only job, and he fucked it up royally.

"You're just pissed that we don't have the same backwards black-and-white worldview you do!" Sam yelled, fire behind it.

John stepped into his personal space.  Sam towered over him, but still seemed like the smaller man to Dean's eyes.  "I had to think that way.  That's what kept you and your brother alive—what kept me alive—by not making friends with monsters."

And maybe he was right.  After all, John had only died once, and only because he made a deal with a demon.  Dean had lost count of how many time he and Sam had died and come back. 

Sam steeled his jaw.  "Monsters like what, Dad?  Like the one you thought I’d become?”

"No, Sam. I’m talking about monsters like that angel you have in the next room."

Dean thought about the look on Cas' face before he'd left, the look that threatened electrical storms and rivers of blood.  The Biblical look.  Like he wanted to smite something.  He’d seen it hundreds of times before; only, that time, it'd been directed at John.

But that wasn't Cas.  Not anymore.  Not for a long time. 

Dean wanted to say that, to make his father understand, but he didn't know how. 

At least Sam gave it a shot.  "You don't even know him!"

"I don't need to," John said, resolute.  "Let me ask you something.  That man he's possessing—who is he?  Is he even still alive in there?"

Sam averted his eyes to the ground.  "No," he admitted.

"No!" John repeated, louder, firmer, like he'd already know the answer.  "What about his family?  He have one of those?"

Sam swallowed.  "Yes."

"And what happened to them?" 

"John—," Mary tried, but John held his hand up and continued to fix his eyes on Sam.

"What happened to them?  Do you even know?"

Sam forced himself to meet John's eyes.  "His wife died, alright?  And his daughter's a hunter now.  A damn good hunter!" 

"She wouldn't have to be if that thing didn't kill her parents.  It ruined her family, Sam, like that demon ruined ours."

_Thing. It._

Dean's fists tightened in his lap.  He'd had the urge to punch his father before, but never like this.  Usually, he could just take it out on a wall instead, until his knuckles were busted open and bloody and they had a motel bill higher than most five star resorts.  But now he shook with it, until his hands went numb, until he had to clutch the back of his head and bring it down between his knees, making himself as small as possible.  He wished he didn't take up any space at all.

And he realized there was a mantra in the back of his head, like a prayer to no one.  It'd been stuck there since Cas had left the room.

_Please don't let him ask me if I love him back._

He wondered if he'd lie if John did end up asking him.

It made him sick, how much of a coward he was.  And to add to it, he hoped Cas couldn't hear that prayer.

He knew Sam and John were still fighting.  He'd gotten used to the way their voices filled a space long ago—how they traveled through the floor boards and up through his boots, settling into his bones.  He'd gotten used to hearing without really listening, to tuning out the shouts and blanking his mind to nothing but white noise. 

He couldn't do that now.  His mind shouted at him.

_It's not supposed to be like this.  We're supposed to be family._

"Alright, stop it, both of you," said Mary suddenly, her voice shattering the familiar rhythm.  This was new.  This had never happened before.  Dean glanced up, and his saw his mother looking back at him before she quickly turned to John and Sam.  She stood up to squeeze herself between them.  Like Dean should have done—like he had done hundreds of time before.

"John," Mary began calmly.  "What you did after I died?  I get it.  I probably would have done the same thing, okay?  And I love you, but you're not acting like the man I married."

John's shoulders slackened, and Dean could only imagine the look on his face.  The hurt, the guilt.  Mary paused, giving him sympathetic eyes.

"I know you don't trust Castiel and Jack.  I'm not asking you to right now.  But I trust them.  I'm asking you to listen to my instincts, as a hunter.  Because I've been doing this a lot longer than you have.  And so have our boys."

John didn't say anything to that.  He appeared to be thinking.  Everything stayed quiet for a while before Sam said, his voice calmer but still licked with hints of rage, "Cas and Jack aren't going anywhere.  You're gonna have to deal with that."

John gave a heavy breath, and looked around and Dean.  A lump formed in Dean's throat, and he was sure this was it.

But instead of asking the question Dean thought he would, John said, "Do you have anything to say about all this?" 

Dean wanted to keep his mouth shut.  He wanted to curl up on himself again.  But he was asked a direct question, and he couldn't avoid it.  "Yeah."  He tried not to wobble too much when he got to his feet.  "It's not supposed to be like this," he said, giving his thoughts a voice.

Over John's shoulder, Sam's brows creased in what Dean could only interpret as confusion—like that wasn’t what Sam had expected him to say, or what he wanted him to say.  Dean knew he'd disappointed him.  He'd disappointed Cas, too.

But he'd just have to live with that.  Because John was finally cooling down, and bringing up Cas again would only reignite the fire.

So, Dean continued, "We're not supposed to treat each other like this.  The four of us haven't been together in, how long?  This is our first hunt as a family.  Can we just friggin' enjoy it, please?"

It seemed like a fucked up thing to want to enjoy with the family.  Dean realized that after the words left his mouth.  But it also seemed to work.  All three of them considered what he’d said, and appeared to agree.

John nodded.  "Okay.  Okay, Dean.  We will," he assured.  "Look, we're all tired.  Let's just go to our corners and get some sleep."  He looked at Sam, trying not to challenge him.  "Sound good?"

Sam appeared for a second like he might refuse, but then he nodded back.  "Sounds good."

Just by the expression on Sam's face and the line of John's shoulders, Dean knew this conversation wasn't over.  But there was a pin in it for now, and he welcomed the respite.  Hell, maybe John would even come around to Cas by then?

It was a desperate hope, one Dean knew would never be granted.  He had a better chance at winning lotto.  But if he was already disappointing everyone else, might as well go for broke and let himself down, too.

 

///

 

The TV flipped between the only ten channels it received for the third time as Jack tried to find something to watch.  He was sitting on the end of the bed, legs crossed beneath him on the floral comforter and remote control pointed at the television set.  His brow was creased in intense resolve, as if something new and exciting would somehow catch his interest.  Something besides late night infomercials, talks show, and sitcom reruns.  Every so often, there was a hiss as he passed a channel emitting only static.

From his place at the table in the corner of the room, Castiel drummed his fingers on the formica.  He'd stopped listening to the Winchester's conversation once Dean had finished speaking, but he knew it was over.  His human ears heard the door open and close, and John and Mary's muffled voices as they shuffled off into their room for the night.  He wondered if she would continue her attempt to convince her husband of Castiel's loyalty, but he didn't eavesdrop.  He didn’t care enough to; or, he was too angry. Every passing second that Dean didn't come into the room made his quiet seething fester more and more.

But then there was a knock on the door, a quick and tentative rapping of knuckles.  And the low broiling Castiel felt in his chest broke into a flame.

Jack turned away from the TV and looked at the door, sitting a little straighter as he did so.  For a moment, it looked like he might not get up.  His eyes flashed to Castiel in question, but Castiel only formed a fist and propped it up to is lips.  He turned into it, favoring the sight of the bare tan walls to watching Jack get up and open the door.

"Hey," Dean had the audacity to say as he walked in.

Neither of them responded.  Jack looked at Dean with expectancy, but Castiel had no idea what he was waiting on.  He, on the other hand, burned. He felt Dean’s eyes on him, but he didn’t return the stare. 

"Kid, can you go hang out with Sam for a minute?  Mom and Dad went to bed," Dean said, breaking the silence.  He sounded worn out and spread too thin and Castiel didn't have an ounce of sympathy to spare.

"Okay," Jack said, flashing Castiel a quick look before heading out the door.  Dean closed it slowly, softly behind him.  Castiel had never seen him that gentle with anything.

He held the knob for a few seconds too long.  "How much of that did you hear?"

Castiel's fist tightened in front his mouth.  He lifted his chin slightly so his voice wouldn't be muffled as he said, "Enough.  Enough to hear Sam and your mother defending us." 

Dean rolled his neck and shoulders, and practically his entire body, as he moved further into the room.  His back was to Castiel.  "Alright, you're pissed at me.  I get it."  His tone was curt and he had no right.

"I don't think there's a word for what I am _at you_ , Dean.  I've been searching for one that appropriately fits." 

Dean spun around to face him.  "Well, whatever it is, you got every right to be," he admitted, and there was a _but_ to that.  He held his arms out akimbo.  "But what was I supposed to do, man?"

Castiel gritted his teeth and stood up, looking at him dead-on for the first time since he entered the room.  "You weren't supposed to question whether our relationship is subterfuge."

"Oh, come on!  I don't!  You know I don't.  I know you're you, Cas."  He stepped closer, holding out his hand.  "C'mon, babe."

"Don't, Dean," Castiel warned, taking a pointed step backwards.  His legs hit the chair.

Dean balled his hand into a fist between them, then flexed his fingers outward in defeat before dropping it back to his side.

"Maybe this is my fault. Maybe rebelling against Heaven wasn’t enough to prove my loyalties. What else can I do, Dean? I'm trying to help.  I'm trying to make it so you don't get yourself killed." 

"What, by trusting Naomi?  Really?"  Dean spit out the name like it left a bad taste in his mouth.  It did in Castiel's, too, but he was willing to swallow it if need be. 

"Yes, if she can help," he said.  "I won't lose you again, Dean.  I can't.  I love you too much."

"Nobody's losing anybody, alright?" Dean shot back in that way he does—the agitated, belittling way that implied he was far too sure of himself about things out of his control. 

"I may if you go through with this ridiculous plan that's bound to fail."

"Oh, well, don't be too optimistic."

"I'm being realistic." 

"Well, it's the plan we're going with.  So, come with us or don't.  But deal with it."

Castiel sat back down and rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.  He didn't want to deal with it.  He wanted his useless wings to take him to some far off mountain summit too high for man to touch.  And he wanted to stay right where he was, in that room, with no one but Dean, to curl up next to him and watch him sleep. 

Dean took a breath into the pause, turning around again to face the bed. “How did he know, anyway?” he asked, too quickly, like Castiel might not hear him if he spoke fast enough. “My dad. How did he know about you—us, I mean?”

Castiel let his hand drop back down to the table. “I don’t know.” Why did it matter? That shouldn’t have been the issue they were focusing on. In fact, it was a non-issue to Castiel’s mind. The real problem was this: “I had assumed you told him. I could see by your expression that I was wrong.” 

Dean half-looked over his shoulder. He didn’t directly confirm or deny it. “Then, how did he figure it out?”

Castiel sighed. He didn’t want to talk about this anymore. “Perhaps he inferred it the other night,” he said, hoping that would end it.

Of course, it only served to startle Dean. He looked around fully now. “What other night?”

“At the bunker. You were asleep. I was leaving your room to get a book from the library and I ran into your father.”

Sometime during the explanation, Dean’s eyes had gone wide and spooked. “You what? _Fuck_. Tell me you were wearing your suit.” 

Castiel narrowed his eyes. Dean had been the one to tell him not to wear his clothes in bed in the first place. “Of course not.”

“Fuck,” Dean swore again, louder this time. He ran his palm down his face in a near panic.

“Well, forgive me, Dean, but I didn’t hear you complaining while we were having sex that night,” Castiel huffed. “Or the morning after.” 

“Okay, _alright_.” Dean started to pace, and pulled at his mouth. “I just—I haven’t gotten a chance to tell him yet, okay? About you and me.”

Castiel had gathered as much. “When _are_ you going to tell him?”

Dean’s strides became even swifter, like a bear trapped against a cave wall by hunters. “I dunno! I _was_ gonna tell ‘im after you two had gotten to know each other better, but I guess that’s not gonna happen now!”

It was very noncommittal, especially because John would only be alive for a few more days. “Dean.” Castiel leaned forward in his chair. “ _Are_ you going to tell him?”

Dean stopped pacing, his side to Castiel. “Yeah,” he said at last, his voice going up in pitch. He pulled a face and tilted his head to the side. “Eventually.”

Castiel rolled his eyes to keep the molten anger from congealing into rock in his chest. Dean must have seen his disappointment, because he quickly added in ways of an excuse, “I just gotta find the right way to tell him. He’s an old school guy, you know?”

“No, Dean, I don’t.”

“He’s from that era,” Dean explained with a wave of his hand. “Where dudes weren’t with other dudes like that.” 

It was the stupidest excuse Castiel had ever heard. He didn’t even understand it. “How is that ‘old school?’ Homosexuality has been around since the dawn of your species. The Ancient Greeks were famed for it.” He saw the blush that had crept into the tips of Dean’s ears. He’d never seen Dean ashamed of them before. Perhaps if this had been a few years ago, but not anymore. In fact, he once saw Dean bark at a woman to _keep walking_ when she tutted at them holding hands in a crosswalk. On another memorable occasion, he’d nearly broken a man’s jaw in a bar for calling them a slur. 

But he was embarrassed now, and Castiel could guess why. 

“Why are you still afraid of your father, Dean? He has no power over you anymore.”

Dean scoffed midway through Castiel’s words. “Oh, shove it, Dr. Phil. I’m not _afraid_ of him. I just know how he’ll react.”

“To what, Dean? What exactly will he be opposed to? That I’m a man? Or a monster?”

Dean set his jaw, eyes guilty as they looked at Castiel. He seemed to be in thought, and then he said, “You’re not a monster, Cas.”

It seemed too little, too late, especially because Dean had been so willing to share Castiel’s past sins with John. He folded his hands on his lap and bent his head. He was tired of this conversation. He was just tired.

Dean’s hands were on his, then, rough and calloused but gentle and warm. He knelt down between Castiel’s knees. “I’ll tell him,” he whispered, and put one hand on Castiel’s thigh. Castiel did not want to melt into the touch, but he couldn’t help it. “I promise, Cas. He’ll come around. He’s not a bad guy, okay? I’ll tell him.” 

He fished for Castiel’s eyes, bending his head this way and that, and Castiel stubbornly refused him. “Come on, baby. Cas. Look at me.” When Castiel didn’t, no matter how much he wanted to, Dean stood up and put his other hand on Castiel’s leg, too. He leaned in, and Castiel leaned back.

“Cas, c’mon, please. Don’t go to bed angry,” he tried to joke. It fell flat, but he pushed a smile when Castiel’s eyes connected with his.

“Okay, Dean,” Castiel said, relenting. He touched the part of Dean’s arm where the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, and Dean seemed to relax. He was just glad this was over. “Can we go to bed now?” 

Instantly, Dean’s expression dropped, and Castiel knew this _wasn’t_ over. “Yeah about that,” he said, becoming shifty. He stood up straight and rubbed the back on his next with his hand. “Maybe I should bunk with Sam tonight, and Jack should stay in here.” 

Castiel let out something that could have been a laugh. He wasn’t sure himself. At once, all his ire had returned, along with the same nauseous feeling as before. “Unbelievable.” He stood up and shoved past Dean to walk around the bed. He didn’t even know where he was going. He just wanted to get away from Dean. He showed him his back. 

“Just for tonight,” Dean said, his voice beseeching. “Just until I tell him.” 

“Fine,” Castiel bit out, even though he didn’t mean it.  He cursed them sometimes, these human emotions.  He recalled when he couldn't feel anything at all.  “Goodnight.”

Dean stayed in the room, the air tense around him. Castiel had a fleeting moment of hope that he would see the error of his ways and stay for the night. 

“Cas—,” Dean started in what might have been an apology, no matter how unlikely, but Castiel didn’t wish to hear it.

“ _Go_ , Dean.” 

There was another pause, and then Castiel heard the door open and slam closed, ratting the frames of the generic printed art on the walls. He wanted to put his fist through one of them. He wanted to take Jack and get in his truck and leave Ohio before Dean could tell him to leave. He wanted to fly away.

 

///

 

Dean didn't get much sleep that night.  Or any at all.  He spent it grumbling and tossing and turning, listening to the familiar sounds of Sam shuffling and sighing in sleep on the other bed.  The TV in the next room turned off at around 3AM, and then everything went quiet.  Dean strained his ears to hear any movement Cas might make, or any murmured conversation between him and Jack.  There was nothing.

Just after 4AM, Dean picked up his phone off the nightstand, its white light making him wince in the semi-darkness of the neon motel sign through the curtains.  He winked one eye open at the screen until his vision adjusted.

 _I love you_ , he tapped out and sent, bile sloshing in his gut.  It was weird, not sleeping next to Cas, not listening to his familiar breathing pattern and position changes when he got uncomfortable.  He wasn't sure when he'd gotten so used to it, but he was sure that he would have been asleep by now if Cas was with him. 

And if he hadn't ruined everything between them like an asshole.  Like he knew he would eventually.  He just didn't expect to ruin it so soon.

He kept staring at the message to make sure it was delivered.  And then he waited for a read receipt to pop up and for Cas to text him back.  And waited.  Five minutes later, still nothing.  Maybe he hadn't seen it.  Maybe he was reading.

He put his phone down and tried to sleep.

By 5:30, Castiel still hadn't texted him back.  It was possible he still hadn't seen it.  There was still no read receipt.  Or maybe he saw the banner on his lock screen, read it, and ignored it. 

By 6:15, Dean was pissed.  Cas was acting like a baby.  Screw him.

By 6:30, he wanted to knock on Cas' door and beg for him to take his stupid, sorry ass back, because he was sure he'd just lost one of the best things in his life.

By 7AM, he woke up to Sam's phone alarm blaring.  Sam got up five minutes later, rubbing the meat of his palms into his eyes and yawning.  He padded into the bathroom, running his hands through his already messed up hair.  The door shut and Dean heard the shower kick on.  He stayed in bed, miserable and angry and in desperate need of some coffee.

He didn't bother brushing his teeth or splashing water on his face before getting up and dressed.  He grabbed the Impala's keys and left, returning twenty minutes later with a plastic bag full of breakfast burritos and a cardboard carrier of coffee.  Sam was at the table, laptop open as he researched what appeared to be the building plans for the church.

"Hey," said, half-glancing up as Dean set the bag and drinks on the table.  "I don't think Mom and Dad'll need those.  They said they'd pick up something on the way." 

"Good," Dean said, pulling out one of the coffees.  "More for me." 

"Didn't sleep well?" Sam gathered, looking at him fully now with his biggest puppy-dog eyes.

Dean shot him a sour look and sat down across from him.  "On the way to where?"

"Didn’t you get Mom's text?" Sam asked, his voice a little strained as he leaned forward to rifle through the burrito bag.  Dean hadn't.  He'd been avoiding his phone at all costs.  He didn't want to see Cas' not-reply to him.  "They went out to get some radios so we can communicate today."

"Why not just use our phones?"

Sam smirked in the way that suggested he was about to say something snarky.  "Last time Dad was around, we still had flip-phones.  Today's not really the day to test the iPhone learning curve." 

Dean rolled his eyes.  Sometimes he forgot just how new smartphones were.  "Whatever.  As long as Mom and Dad aren't driving around forever looking for a RadioShack." 

Sam snorted.  "Right, can you imagine?  I told them to find a Walmart or something."

Dean snorted sardonically into his coffee.

Sam chewed his burrito, swallowed, and cleared his throat.  He pushed his laptop a little away from him.  "So, uh, hey."  His voice was conversational, too-casual, and Dean immediately knew the next thing out of his mouth would be anything but.  "About last night, with Dad.  And Cas."

"It's nothing.  It'll blow over."

Sam gave him a look like he didn't believe it, which was fair.  Dean didn't believe it, either.

"Look, I don't wanna pry—." 

"'Kay.  Conversation over."  Dean stood up and took his coffee over to the bed.  He could feel Sam watching his back.

"Dean," he sighed.  "I get why you're nervous to tell Dad about you and Cas."  He snorted, "Believe me, I know how rigid his worldview can be.  But you and Cas—I mean, you're finally together.  I know how much that means to you.  You got a real chance here, man.  And sometimes, to be happy, you gotta make people mad sometimes—even Dad."

The string of Dean's patience had slowly been getting tauter throughout Sam's little speech, until finally it snapped.  "Could you cut it with the _It Gets Better_ crap, Sam?  It's fine.  I'm fine." 

"You're not fine!" Sam argued in his annoying little brother voice.  He upturned his palms to gesture at Dean.  "You've been acting different since we brought Dad back.  I mean, you're acting like you did when we were kids." 

"Oh, please!" Dean huffed.

It didn't deter Sam.  "You've grown up a lot since he died, Dean.  He said it himself, we've seen stuff he couldn't even imagine!  You're a better hunter—a better man—than he ever was!"

Dean scoffed.

"I mean it."  He settled, letting his frustration dwindle.  "I just—I don't wanna see you throw all of that away because he's treating you like nothing's changed." 

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but Dean actually listened.  The words smoothed out the lines of his face and eased the knots in his shoulders.

"We—we've only got a couple more days with him.  Max," Sam finished sadly.  "Try and make 'em count for something."

Dean thought back to the first night after John had been resurrected, the books he skimmed through in the library.  He thought about the miles of search results he'd gone through.  And decided he needed help.

He sat the end of the bed, facing his brother.  "What if we didn't?" he asked.  "Only have a couple more days?"

Off Sam's puzzled expression, Dean licked his lips and explained, "I've been trying to find something.  A spell, or—I dunno, anything—to keep him alive.  For good. Or, ya know, until he turns ninety and kicks it." 

Sam blinked, his expression going through a range of emotions.  Surprise, wariness, consideration, until it finally landed on cautious hope.  "Have you found anything?"

"I dunno.  Maybe.  I bookmarked a few pages I think might help.  They're all either bullshit or some pretty dark magic, but—," he shrugged.  "Maybe we could make it work." 

Sam sat back, his eyes searching thin air in thought.  He let out something that was somewhere in between a laugh and a sigh.  "Does he know you're doing this?" 

"No one does."  Sam nodded, and it was enough for Dean to know he wouldn't breathe a word of it to anyone until the time was right.  "But clock's tickin', man.  I don't want it to run out before we find something that could at least buy us some more time."

Sam stared at him hard for a while, and then nodded again, sterner that time.  "Okay," he said, determined.  "Okay.  Send me the links you have.  I'll look into them."

Dean tensed his jaw.  This could work.  This could really be happening.  They could be together again like they were supposed to be.  He could watch his parents grow old together.

"Okay," he repeated, and stood up to go brush the sticky, gritty feeling off his teeth.

"Hey, Dean." 

Dean looked over his shoulder tentatively.  He should have known Sam wasn't done needling. 

"If Dad _is_ sticking around," he said, "you're gonna have to tell him about Cas sooner or later." 

Dean sighed.  "Yeah."  His phone was suddenly a brick in his pocket.  He hoped there was still something left to tell.  "I gotta be the worst boyfriend in the world."

"No, no, man, come on, don't give yourself that much credit."  The corners of his mouth turned up.  "You're, at most, the worst boyfriend in Middle America."

Weirdly, it made Dean feel a little bit better.


	3. Chapter 3

The rumbling of the Impala’s engine came to an abrupt stop as Dean turned the key in the ignition. They were parked on the adjacent street from the church, it’s steeple rising up to the pewter gray sky. Castiel, from the back seat of the car, felt rain on the wind, the atmospheric build up coming from the northwest. A charge ran through the chemical make up of the air, but it was still distance. The weather should hold up until that night.

There was another storm, however, much closer, existing in the space between him and the two men sitting in the front of the Impala. Dean had been shooting him looks all morning when he thought Castiel didn’t notice. They ranged from apologetic to frustrated to angry, but Castiel never gave him the satisfaction of returning the stare. The notification banner was still a ribbon across his phone whenever he tapped the screen into life, and half of him wanted to open it, to let Dean know he’d read it but wouldn’t acknowledge it. Perhaps Dean would call him petty for that. Then again, maybe now he would call Castiel a hopeless romantic for being unable to clear the message from his lock screen.

He opted to do nothing. He wasn’t sure what Dean would say about that. Probably nothing, as he hadn’t spoken a single word to Castiel since the previous night.

“Alright, how many we got?” John asked, orienting him body to look out Dean’s window, arm slung over the back of the seat. His eyes searched every person walking on the sidewalk near the church—mothers pushing strollers, a priest speaking to a group of school children in uniform in the garden next to a stone statue of the Virgin Mary, teenagers loitering, and men with cell phones held up to their ears. It was just the right amount of activity one would expect in the center of a small town on a mild fall afternoon.

“I count thirteen,” Dean said, “including the kids.”

John nodded, appearing to agree. 

Castiel cast his eyes over the passersby. A few were human. He could see their souls shining through like light trapped in crystal prisms. Many were angels. Their grace burned brightly in their vessels, outshining the human souls they had tucked away into some remote part of the subconscious.

“Nine,” he said shortly. It caught both Winchester’s attention, but their glances were hardly friendly.

“Come again?” John asked.

Castiel breathed through his nose. “There are nine angels in the immediate vicinity. The rest are human,” he elaborated. Even as he said it, those that were human were finding their way past the church, intent on their own business. The rest lingered, sleeper agents guarding a prize.

“That’s still nine angels between us and the front door,” Dean muttered, swiveling back around in his chair. “Can’t exactly cut our way through that many.”

“We’re not cutting our way through anyone, Dean,” John reprimanded. “Those are _people_ in there. They’re possessed, just like with demons.”

Even though he was correct, Castiel wanted to roll his eyes at the pointed reminder of the possessed vessel not a foot behind him. He managed to control his ocular muscles, but he couldn’t do the same for his tongue. “Actually, angels have to gain permission to enter a vessel. Demons merely take.”

John turned almost all the way around to look at him. “Yeah, and what kind of mind games and ultimatums do you give them in order to make them say yes?”

Castiel held his stare dead on for a few seconds before the thought of Jimmy Novak crossed his mind. Perhaps the first _yes_ had been mostly based off faith, provided Castiel held up his end of the deal in protecting his family—which he failed at. The second time, however, there had been an ultimatum. Jimmy or Claire. It was a choice Jimmy had made of his own volition, but Castiel did use it to his advantage. 

His gaze flickered down to his lap despite his best attempts.

He heard John shuffle back around. “Yeah, thought so.”

“Can you two cool it?” Dean barked, a little too late, Castiel noticed. “We’re workin’ a job.”

Both Castiel and John huffed at the same time, but neither acknowledged it.

It was then that the walkie talkie on the seat between Dean and John crackled into life, its electricity vibrating through the airwaves. “Hey, guys?” came Sam’s tinny voice from the speaker. Dean swept the radio into his hands. “We got a couple angels over here. Over.”

Sam, Jack, and Mary were on the other side of the church, near the cemetery in the back. Once their plan was being implemented, Sam and Jack would retreat to their positions on the rooftop of an abandoned storefront overlooking the cemetery and the park across the street. Mary would drive around the perimeter of the church, ensuring the angels didn’t suspect they were being infiltrated.

“How many? Over,” Dean said, pressing down on the button on the side of the radio. It was a cheap thing, something children might use while playing hide and seek. It had a plastic casing of a garish yellow color.

“Jack says four. Over.”

Dean dropped the radio to his lap and looked at his father, as if awaiting instruction. “Less than what we’ve got over here. Think we should try and find a back way in?”

John didn’t answer directly. He took the radio from Dean and spoke into it. “Sam, we’re gonna need a plan B. Front door’s too hot. Over.”

“Uh, okay,” said Sam, and Castiel could hear the thoughtful pondering in his tone even over the device. “There’s a rectory on the other side. You should be able to see it from where you are.” 

At the side of the church, there was a small building that connected to the main one. It was a single story, with large windows whose curtains were drawn. He couldn’t see the front door from this angle, but there was a gate in the fence on the perpendicular street. It opened to a walkway. 

“Got it. Looks clear,” John said. “Over.”

“John, I’m letting the boys out now,” came Mary’s voice. “Sam will be in the park. Jack should stay more hidden in case any of the angels pick up on who he is. Wait for the signals before heading in, okay? Over.” 

“Got it,” John said again. He lowered the radio fractionally from his mouth, looking as if he wanted to say something else. And then, “Be careful, Mary. Over.” Castiel thought he almost look nervous, maybe even a little afraid. He wondered if that’s the same expression he himself wore whenever a mission separated him from Dean. 

“You, too,” she said gently, earnestly, and signed off. 

Dean turned the engine back over and they drove a little closer to the street with the entrance to the rectory. They waited nearly ten minutes before Mary’s blue Charger drove past them. The panic lights flashed—once, twice, three times—from the rear before they cut off again and she turned onto the next street.

“That was it,” Dean grunted as he opened his door and slid out of the car, hefting his duffle full of weapons over his arm as he did so. John did the same on the passenger side, and Castiel was about to get out when Dean hastily shoved his hand out to stop the door. Castiel grunted, half a mind to push back and knock Dean out of the way. He shot Dean a scornful glare.

Dean didn’t seem to notice. He was looking off at the street, watching for anyone taking interest in them. Apparently satisfied that no one was spying on them, he took his hand off the door and let Castiel open it. “All clear,” he said. “No one around to see your grace. Don’t want them ringing the alarm bells when we aren’t even in the church yet.” 

Castiel clenched his jaw, aggravated for some reason that Dean was looking out for him. It was necessary, and practical—and infuriating.

He didn’t say anything in response, but slammed the car door a bit too forcefully, and saw Dean tense. He was about to shoulder past him when Dean grabbed him by the arm and stopped him. His grip was tight around Castiel. Their bodies facing in opposite directions, Dean slightly turned his face towards him and whispered, “What, you ignoring me now?”

“No, Dean,” he answered, not bothering to keep his voice down. “I’m giving you space. Until you tell your father.” He cocked his head to the side mockingly. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?” 

Dean shook his head, anger burning smaragdine in his eyes. “God, you’re acting like a friggin’ child.” 

“Hey, you boys wanna stand a little more in the direct sunlight while we’re doing this?” John called softly from the other side of the gate. “Get over here.” He turned around and hustled up the stairs to the front door of the rectory. Castiel saw him peering into the window to make sure it was empty inside. It was. He didn’t see any souls lighting up like heat maps through the walls, but he didn’t elect to say so.

Instead, he ripped his arm out of Dean’s hold. “You better do as he says, Dean,” he gritted out, and maybe it was too harsh but he didn’t care. He stalked towards the gate. Dean was on his heels.

“Why can’t you give me one fucking minute to figure out my shit, Cas?” he said in a harsh whisper into Castiel’s ear. “It’s not like I ever thought I’d have this problem.”

“Well, apologies for being your _problem_.”

Dean growled in frustration as they started up the porch steps. “ _You_ are not my problem. The situation is my problem. But you are not helping and _that’s_ a probl—.” He cut himself when they got too close to John, who was working on picking the lock. It was already taking too long. 

“Let me,” Castiel said, all but shoving him out of the way and gripping the doorknob. He gave it one firm twist, and heard the wood splinter and the metal break. The door swung open and he strolled inside the dark entrance room. 

“Guess we can add property damage to our list of Family Reunion Fun,” John said as they followed him inside and shut the door as best he could. One strong breeze would open it back up. 

“Well, technically this is God’s house, so for him it’s kinda like wrecking the place when your parents are out of town,” Dean joked, apparently recovered from their prior conversation. Or at least he was pretending to be. Either way, Castiel ignored him and peered around the room, feeling for anything warded against angels. So far, there was nothing. 

Dean told the others they were inside via the radio as they walked through the rectory and into the church. It was quiet inside, the chandeliers on the high ceiling flipped off, the only light coming from the painted sun through the stain glass windows and the flame burning next to the tabernacle. Dean went up to it and opened its golden doors, but it was empty inside.

“Okay, spread out,” John said. “It’s gotta be here somewhere.” He walked towards the vestibule, footsteps echoing against the walls as he went. Dean, meanwhile, moved towards the organ off the side of the nave.

Castiel didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, nor did he sense anything warded. Still, he wandered down the pews, running his hands along their backs, keeping his eyes open. He found himself by the prayer candles near the windows overlooking the cemetery, and stared at the dancing orange lights in their red glass containers. He wondered briefly who lit these candles, and what their petitions were. He wondered if they knew no one was listening to their prayers.

“Anything?” Dean asked, coming up close beside him. He looked vaguely around again, as if he could spot the Hand of God with only a fleeting glance.

“No,” Castiel told him, not turning away from the candles. Just to have something to do, he struck a long match and dipped it into a blackened wick, watching it burst into life. There wasn’t any intention behind it, no prayer. Or maybe there was.

He heard Dean’s sigh echo back to him. “Cas,” he said, his voice made low by their quiet surroundings. “What do you want me to do here? I’m trying, okay.”

Castiel side-eyed him, not believing that was true for a second.

Dean rolled his eyes. “I mean it, man. But you can’t ask me to choose between you and my dad.” 

That couldn’t possibly be what he thought Castiel wanted him to do. He knew he was only a cursory part of Dean’s life, an afterthought. Dean’s family, his blood family, would always come first to him, and John was no exception. Castiel wouldn’t ask him to change that. He only wished to remain on the sidelines, not to be pushed out of Dean’s life completely. But perhaps it was inevitable. Perhaps it was only a matter of time.

He looked back down at the candle he’d lit and realized that had been his prayer. More time. He felt as if he were constantly praying for that when it came to himself and Dean. 

“I’m not, Dean,” he said through his teeth. “But he is. And you _are_.” 

He watched Dean blink and open and close his mouth a few times, apparently dumbfounded. “Cas,” he said when he finally found his voice, and Castiel looked out the window. “Do you really think that’s what—?” Castiel tuned out, not out of spite or boredom, but because something pushed at the back of his mind. It felt like his grace was stretching out like a bungee chord, taut enough to snap if he made a move. 

“Cas, are you listening to me?” Dean hissed when Castiel came to.

“The mausoleum,” he replied, ignoring Dean’s confused expression. He pointed out the window towards the cemetery, to the structure in the center of it. “The Hand is in it.” 

Dean followed his line of sight, staring hard at the mausoleum. It was old and weather-beaten, probably closed for decades. The inscription on the top had long since faded away. “You sure?”

He was sure. “It’s the only thing warded against angels.”

Dean nodded, and called over Castiel’s shoulder, “Hey, Dad, I think we found it.”

John hustled over. At the same time, static came from the radio in Dean’s hand. He moved his palm away from the speaker to hear better. It was Jack’s voice on the other end. “Dean, Castiel! There are angels going into the church!” 

It was too late. The doors in the vestibule opened, and three angels came through. They looked as much caught of guard as Castiel, Dean, and John did; but they recovered quickly enough. Their blades slid down from their sleeves, catching the handles in their fists. Castiel let his fall from his coat, and readied himself. Next to him, Dean and John took out their pistols loaded with angel killing bullets and trained them on the angels.

“Winchesters,” one of the angels said, and lunged forward, blade raised. Dean fired off a shot, and then another, taking out two of the angels. John took out the last, despite his earlier protests of sparing the vessels. Their grace burst white-hot throughout the room and they crumpled to the floor, wings burnt into the tile and wooden pews.

“Dean, don’t,” Castiel warned, even though it was no use now. It happened just like he’d feared: the gunshots had attracted the other angels, and they began to flood into the church. Most came through the front doors, but two found their way in through the rectory.

The Winchesters open fired, managing to take out a few more angels, but others got close. Castiel swiped his blade at one, the metal singing as it made contact with his opponent’s. He drew back, the movement taking the angel by surprise, and ripped through the chest of his vessel. It was almost too easy. He’d been a warrior of Heaven for six millennia. These angels weren’t even a year old. 

He didn’t want to kill them. Heaven needed angels. But they were Michael’s army, and they left him no choice. Michael would make more.

“Dean!” he heard John yell in between gunshots. “Door!” 

Castiel chanced a look over his shoulder, where an emergency exit led out to the cemetery grounds. Another angel took the opportunity to lunge for him, and he got out of the way just fast enough that she only cut a tear in the lining of his coat. He arced his blade towards her, but she ducked, and elbowed him in the gut. He grunted, the force of her strength making him reel backwards. 

When he caught his balance, he twirled his blade to adjust his grip, and she rushed him at the same instant he moved on her. He leaned to the right, purposefully watching the point of her blade fly towards his face, and swerved left just in time to off-balance her. He brought his elbow down on hers, outstretched beside him, and her blade clattered out of her hands. He grabbed her wrist, spun her around, and plunged his blade into her gut. He felt the heat of her grace supernova around him, and let her body fall limp.

More angels were advancing, and he held up his blade in warning as he moved backwards towards the door. Dean fired off a few more bullets as he held the door open, and slammed it shut when Castiel was through. 

They ran to the mausoleum, where John was breaking the warding symbols etched into the stone with a hammer from Dean’s duffle. The pushing and pulling on Castiel’s grace immediately lifted like a weight off his chest. He felt stronger as he neared the crypt.

The ancient wooden door was behind a metal grating, chained and deadlocked in the center. Castiel tore the lock off with a clang, and he and John opened the grates. Meanwhile, Dean slashed a cut into his palm and used his blood to draw a banishing symbol onto the side of the crypt.

Castiel grunted as he shoved his shoulder against the wooden door. It resisted some, but it creaked loudly as it opened. The air inside was cold and musty and stale.

The angels had caught up to them, still five of them left. Castiel grabbed John by the sleeve and manhandled him through the door, and then turned around with his blade up. Dean’s bloodied hand hovered over the sigil in warning, and all the angels came to a halt.

There were too many of them. They would charge the moment Castiel and Dean tried to get into the crypt.

“Dean, do it,” Castiel told him, biting the bullet. He knew he would be blown away, too, possibly to the same place as the other angels. It was likely the fight would continue elsewhere, and he would be outnumbered. He might even lose to them. But it would give Dean and John the time they needed to get the Hand. They could use it against Michael. 

Dean gave him a look that Castiel couldn’t quite interpret—worry and doubt and fear, and something else. His soul swirled in muddled grays and deep blacks. He lowered his hand away from the sigil and doubled his grip on his gun.

“Inside, get inside,” he ordered, and Castiel obliged swiftly. Dean went in after him, and the three of them slammed the heavy door closed together with the light of John’s flashlight. The angels on the other side were beating against the wood. Dean quickly used his still bleeding hand to scribble a sloppy warding spell onto the door, and the pounding stopped.

Dean leaned against the wall, his breath coming out in shallow pants that eventually evened out. John shined his light into the tomb, but instead of the small room of caskets or wall plaques they were expecting, the light bounced off against stone stairs leading downward. The beam only illuminated five steps down before it was swallowed again by darkness, but Castiel could see further. There were at least twenty-five steps, and a concrete opening at the bottom.

“Whoa,” Dean breathed out.

“Yeah,” John agreed, sounding out of breath himself. “Guess the Men of Letters liked their secret underground lairs.”

“You’re tellin’ me.” Dean held up the radio and pushed down on the button. “Sam, you there?” There was only feedback; Sam’s voice never responded. “Sammy? Sam? Mom? Dammit.” He looked at the stone around them. “Walls must be too thick.” 

John slid the strap of the duffle off his shoulder and handed it back to Dean; and Dean fished inside for his own flashlight before swinging it onto his back. “We’re on our own, then,” he said matter-of-factly. “Better get going.” He started down the stairs.

Dean shoved the useless radio into his pocket, and hissed a little when the fabric and dirt on his jeans rubbed against his wounded hand. Castiel took pity on him. “Here, let me,” he said softly, and lifted Dean’s hand, upturned, with both of his. He placed his palm over Dean’s and willed his grace forward to clot the blood and stitch up the skin.

“Thanks,” Dean said when the light and humming energy of Castiel’s grace retreated back inside of him. But Castiel didn’t let go of his hand, and Dean seemed content to let the touch linger. He felt Dean’s heart rate elevate slightly, and his soul emitted a desperate kind of hope that radiated through Castiel. It made him want to pull Dean into him and kiss him breathless and forget about his angers and reservations. 

But then John’s light swept up to them from a dozen steps down, and he called, “Dean! You coming?” Dean immediately let his hand drop, and swallowed hard in remorse. He didn’t look back at Castiel and he jostled down the steps after his father. 

Castiel’s irritation spiked again before settling like cold fingers against his ribs. He followed Dean deeper into the stone and earth.

The air became thinner the further they descended, the trapped oxygen cold and brackish-scented from what rainwater had found its way into the cracks and crevices in the walls. Castiel heard his human companions’ breaths quicken as breathing became slightly more difficult. He felt the carbon their lungs produced replacing the atoms around them. But there was enough oxygen to last hours, and he doubted they would be down there that long.

The crypt opened up to a wide room, almost a cavern made of slab and concrete. There were iron sconces on the walls next to the entrance, and Dean fished in his pocket for his Zippo. He brushed away the cobwebs from the fixtures and set the room aglow.

The crypt’s walls were lined with shelves and tabletops of old tomes and objects. A few curse boxes were lined up next to jars of substances Castiel couldn’t quite determine. On the floor, propped up against the wall, were a rolled up carpet, a battle-axe that appeared to be from the Iron Age, and a wrinkled and yellowed map of the United States circa the eighteen-fifties. 

A large stone coffin rested in the center of the crypt. Warding sigils were carved into its lid, but Castiel still felt the power coming from inside, like nothing he’d felt before. It was ancient and rendered with dark matter, and his eyes were immediately drawn to it. Half of him felt the urge to break open the stone and reach for the thing inside; but the warding warned him away, cautioning him towards taking so much as a step further. He almost felt sick with the push and pull of the magics battling each other.

“Dean,” he said, his voice a little more hoarse than he’d anticipated. Dean was over by the shelves, a jar of what appeared to be a pickled cattle eye in his hands as he stared at it with the corners of his mouth pulled down in repulsed fascination. He looked up, and Castiel pointed to the coffin. “The _IPAMIS OL OLPRIT_ is in there.” 

Both Dean and John’s attention moved to the coffin, and tentatively they stepped towards it. “A little on the nose, huh?” Dean commented.

“It’s the most guarded object in the room,” Castiel told him, remaining still in the entranceway. “And the most powerful.”

John gave him a look at that, but Castiel didn’t meet his eyes and wasn’t interested in figuring out what it meant.

“Son, help me get this thing open,” John said, situating himself on one end of the coffin. Dean moved to the other. They both planted their feet on the concrete and struggled with the lid, their fingers turning red and white where they were wedged in the crevice. Their boots slid on the floor. Castiel saw their muscles straining, but the top didn’t so much as budge.

They rested to catch their breath, and John shot Castiel another glare. “You wanna help us out?”

Castiel didn’t move. “It’s warded.” 

“Of course, it is.” He turned back to Dean, both of them still panting in the thin air. “Okay, come on. Let’s try this again.”

Dean looked like he was about to complain, but instead dropped his shoulders in defeated acceptance before gripping the slab again. This time, there was a shift, the grating sound of stone scratching against stone filling the crypt. It appeared to both surprise and spur the Winchesters on. They doubled their efforts, and soon they managed a small slit of an opening.

Then, there was a static burst around them, a new energy surging into the room, felt only by Castiel. It was familiar, but strong, and adrenaline at once flowed through his human body. “Wait! Dean!” he barked, but it was too late. The visage of a woman flickered into being on the other side of the coffin. Her hair was matted, dirty; her eyes sunken and bruised with purples and reds. Her burial clothes were filthy and tattered.

Dean and John saw the ghost at once, and immediately abandoned their attempts at the coffin. They paced backwards, both on high alert as they kept the spirit in their sights.

“Tell me you packed some rock salt in that bag,” John said, indicating the duffle on the dusty floor next to the coffin.

Dean became skittish. “Well, it’s not like I thought we were gonna be dealing with ghosts today!”

“Damn it, Dean.”

The ghost flickered out of existence, and reappeared in the middle of Dean and John. John dove for the axe against the wall and swung, in the process shouting, “Get down, Dean!” Dean jumped out of the way just in time to miss the arc of the axe. It swept through the ghost, making it burst into a cloud of fizzling smoke.

Another ghost, a man, appeared at John’s side. Almost like he’d anticipated it, John swung at it. Two more took its place, this time advancing towards Dean.

Castiel looked around frantically for something they could use as a weapon.

“Cas, behind you!” Dean called, and Castiel immediately spun around to the empty stairs. There wasn’t a spirit there, but he realized Dean was referring to the iron sconces. Castiel ripped one from the wall, causing the stone to crumble and cough dust. The fire on the sconce’s candle jerked but didn’t blow out. He tossed it to Dean, who caught it and swung, taking out both ghosts and the flame along with them. 

Castiel went for the other sconce, tearing it down just in time for the first ghost they’d seen to appear next to him. He felt her spirit splitting the air before she was fully formed, scattering the atoms to wedge herself into the fabric of the world. He sliced the iron through her, and she ceased to be.

“Where the fuck are these things coming from?” Dean shouted as he took out another spirit.

“I think—they’re the spirits of the people buried here. In the cemetery,” John deduced after he was finished with another ghost. “It must be some kind of protection spell Dad used to protect the weapon.”

There were more ghosts now, a dozen or so. The muscles in Castiel’s shoulders were beginning to ache from swinging, but he pressed on. There had to be a more permanent solution.

“Great!” Dean complained, his voice cracking under his strain. “Thanks, Grandpa! What are we supposed to do? Light up the entire damn bone yard?” 

They couldn’t. The radios weren’t working to call Sam, to tell him to start digging, to salt and burn every corpse in the cemetery in the middle of the afternoon. They didn’t have time for that, anyway. Not the human way. 

John was mid-swing when a ghost flicked him toward the wall. The impact of his body on a table caused the books on top to fall and the wood to crack in two. The axe flew out of his hand in the process.

“Dad!” 

They were surrounded now, and Castiel could only just see Dean through the swimming, translucent shifting of the spirits’ visages. He was backed against a wall. Castiel tried to fight his way towards him, calling his name, but the spirits were getting stronger. It seemed, the moment he scattered them out of being, they reappeared again a different place around him. 

He thought of what Dean said. _Light them up_. The human way would take too long. Not his way. He narrowed his eyes at the earth, passed the stone walls and into the decaying, carbon-based bodies and bones planted in the dirt around them. He reached down into himself, gathering his grace and pulling it to the surface. He tossed the iron sconce to the side, and barely heard it clang on the floor beyond the singing in his ears. 

“Dean, John, close your eyes!”

His own eyes illuminated with pale, radiant light. He focused it on the bones in the ground. He held up his hand to direct it, and let his grace lash out. It filled up the space, chasing the darkness to the places it tried to hide, snaking through the animal tunnels and oxygenized spaces in the dirt. The bones lit up in red and smoldered, and he heard the screams of agony around him as the ghosts died. He couldn’t hear Dean’s voice amongst the chaos, so he assumed he hadn’t burned his eyes out of his skull.

When the last of the screams faded, he reeled his grace back in, fitting it to realign with the confines of Jimmy Novak’s empty vessel. It was disorienting at first, as it always was, but he blinked the light out of his irises and flexed his fingers, and the body was his own again.

Dean was crouched on the floor, angled away from Castiel, his arm slung over his eyes. Hesitantly, he lowered it, and his vision tried to adjust to the sudden lack of light. Castiel went over to him and helped him up, quickly checking Dean’s eyes in the process. There were a few burst capillaries, but no serious damage that wouldn’t heal on its own, despite the itching. Forrest green stared back at him, a little dazed.

“I’m fine,” Dean told him, so Castiel released his elbow. They both looked at John, who was getting to his feet. He groaned and dusted himself off as he straightened out. He peered around, still on his guard in case any spirit had survived. They hadn’t, so he breathed and dropped the tension in his shoulders. 

His eyes moved to Castiel, and there was something in them. Gratitude? He wouldn’t go so far as to say that, but nevertheless it wasn’t the usual suspicious glare Castiel was used to seeing directed his way. 

“Thanks,” John said, like it was an effort. 

Castiel nodded once, curtly, as if he’d proved a point. He was useful. “You’re welcome.”

Without another word, Dean and John went back to the coffin, their bodies limping slightly with exhaustion. Castiel felt it, too, now that he had a moment to settle. His grace was not what it once was. It would need time to recover, to build up in strength again. 

With a few noises of exertion, the Winchesters managed to slide the lid off the coffin. It made a loud, dull thud and it landed on the floor. They both looked down into the shadowed pit, then at each other over it. John pulled out a cloth from his jacket pocket, reached in with it, and took out what appeared to be a shepherd’s staff. 

“Think this is it?” he mused, holding the object in both hands and inspecting it. Dean shrugged. It seemed plain, ordinary. It was not. Castiel felt the power coming off it like a lightning strike.

“That’s it.” 

John went to the discarded duffle and zipped it open. He wrapped the cloth fully around the Hand of God and put it carefully into the bag. It only just fit, the ends of it bulging against the inside. He closed the bag and hefted it over his shoulder.

The three of them started back up the stairs, each of their anticipation growing with every step. The angels might have been waiting for them. Perhaps even Michael was there. He’d want to take the Hand from them.

Castiel felt for his angel blade, gripping it tightly as they reached the top of the stairs. Dean and John had their pistols out again.

Dean smeared the still wet blood of the warding sigil he’d painted on the door, but there wasn’t an immediate barrage of angels trying to break inside. Not believing their luck would hold, he looked up to Castiel and his father. “Ready?”

Castiel’s grip tightened reflexively. John nodded, and Dean tore the door open. The sunlight was blinding in comparison to the dark tomb. But the cemetery was vacant. Birdsong filled the air. And then Sam rushed around the corner of the mausoleum. They all relaxed when they realized it was him. 

“Guys!” he said, a breathless grin cracking his face. Mary and Jack came around, too, standing on the grass. The long blades poked out around their shoes. 

“Where’d all the angels go?” John asked.

Sam held up his hand. A ripped cloth was tied to it, stained bright red at the palm. “Sent them away,” he said, and Castiel noticed the banishing sigil Dean had drawn on the wall to the right of him. It was used up now, a bloody handprint in its dead center.

Castiel wanted to heal him like he had for Dean, but his grace was still fizzling inside of him. He needed to save it. Sam would be fine on his own.

“Did you get it?” Mary asked. John turned slightly, showing her the duffle. She seemed to get the message, and nodded.

“Okay, let’s get back to the motel. We shouldn’t stay in town much longer in case the angels show up again,” John said, already walking. In the sunlight, Castiel saw a fresh bruise blooming on his temple from where he’d hit the wall. 

Everyone followed him, except Castiel. He lingered momentarily, thinking about the angels. They would report back to Michael about what had transpired here today. Without doubt, he knew Michael would come after them in search of retrieving the weapon, but he’d more likely than not send his army in his stead. 

They had to get to him before he’d exhausted his soldiers and came himself. They had to take him by surprise and use the weapon against him.

His eyes skirted along the banishing sigil, to the crypt’s dark door, then forward to John Winchester. To Jack. To Dean. He followed the slope of Dean’s shoulders, and Dean must have felt it. He looked around, and Castiel’s eyes flickered to the grass.

“You comin’?” Dean called.

There was a pit forming in Castiel’s stomach as he walked after the group.

Michael didn’t need to find them. They needed to find Michael.

 

///

 

The sun was down by the time they got the cars packed up to go, and whatever light the moon might have provided was shrouded behind a thick layer of clouds. Dean felt a few stray, cold droplets carried on the wind hit his cheeks. It looked like they would be driving back home in a rainstorm. It was best to get going ASAP. 

John packed the duffle with the Hand of God into the trunk of the Impala for safekeeping, and Dean threw his own duffle in next to it.

“Think we’re ready to head out,” John said. Dean looked at the other cars parked nearby. The Charger’s trunk was open, John’s bag in it, as Mary packed the rest of her belongings into her suitcase beyond the opened door to her motel room. Sam was leaning against Cas’ truck, one leg bent back and foot resting on the rear wheel. Jack was already inside the cab’s passenger seat, waiting to go.

Dean looked over his shoulder at the room Cas and Jack shared the previous night. The door was shut, but yellow light spilled out, lighting up the thin curtains from within. Cas was still inside, probably checking under the bed and in the shower to make sure Jack hadn’t left anything behind. 

“Okay, saddle up. I’ll go ‘im,” Dean said, slamming the Impala’s trunk closed. He went to Cas’ room, and didn’t bother knocking before trying the knob. It wasn’t locked, so Dean stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Cas was pulling out a drawer of the dresser, and closed it again when he found it empty. One of Jack’s shirts was balled up in his fist.

“Hey,” Dean said. Cas barely glanced at him as he went to the nightstand next to the unmade bed. Dean hovered near the door, not knowing what else to do. “So, uh, we’re headed out.” 

“Okay.” 

“Dad’s gonna ride with Mom. And Sammy said he’d drive the truck back home with Jack.” 

Cas paused, finally looking fully at him. “Why?” 

Dean shrugged a little sheepishly. “So you and me can—I dunno. Talk.” It would be awkward, or they’d want to punch each other out after a while, and Dean dreaded fourteen hours stuck in a car talking about his _feelings_. But he wanted to put whatever this was behind them, over and done and never thought about again. “Ya know, clear the air before we get back to Lebanon.” 

Cas sighed in that way he did before delivering bad news, and Dean felt a fist from in his gut.

“What?”

“Dean,” Cas said, his eyes straying to the floor. “I’m not going back to the bunker.”

The fist clamped tight. His first instinct was to deny it. “What? What do mean? Of course, you are.” 

“No, I’m not.” He explained, “We have the Hand of God now. You father can perform the spell to give you control of it, and we can use it to take down Michael. But we have to find him first.”

“Okay,” Dean said, already defensive. He didn’t know what that had to do with going home. “So, we find him. _We_ find him.” He pointed between himself and Cas. “All of us. Together.”

Cas met his eyes again, squaring his shoulders. “We’ll cover more ground if we split up.”

For a second, Dean’s mind blanked. But then it processed what Cas had said, and anger bubbled in him. He scoffed once, and then twice. “You’re leaving.”

Cas stayed quiet, which was worse than confirming it.

“You that desperate to get away from me? First you want me to blow your ass to the Outfield with the rest of the angels, and now you’re pulling this?”

 _No. No, no_. He was suddenly awash with the same emotions that always hit him whenever Cas walked out: rage and frustration and sadness and fear. Rejection. Loss. Guilt. Because this was his fault. He’d fucked this up. He hadn’t stood up for him to John. He’d driven Cas away, like always.

Cas stood his ground. “Jack and I will search for Michael.” 

Dean decided to focus on the rage part of what he was feeling. “And what the hell am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

If Cas was at all affected by Dean’s outburst, he didn’t show it, except for maybe in the eyes. They grew sadder, somehow. “Spend time with your family, Dean. With your father.” 

So, that’s what this was about. Michael was just an excuse. Cas wanted to turn tail and run instead of be anywhere near John. “And then what? Huh, Cas?” He walked further into the room, slow deliberate steps. In four strides, he was in front of Cas. “He’s out of the picture and you waltz on back in?”

Cas blinked away, half turning as if inspecting the room for any more of Jack’s forgotten items. He was only pretending. “Well, I don’t expect Michael will be that easy to find. It’ll probably take more than a few days.” 

Dean clenched his jaw, at a loss for words. The one he finally found was, “Wow.” And then, “So, that’s it?”

Cas stared at him directly. “That’s it.” 

A grimace came to Dean’s face, twisting his mouth. The anger in him was still there, but it simmered, becoming overpowered by the nauseating sensation of remorse. And hurt. His stomach sloshed with all the hurt. 

“That’s bullshit, Cas,” he said, his voice thicker than he’d like. “And you know it.” Dean walked around him, moving closer to the bathroom and facing the wall. He let some of the pressure behind his eyes go now that Cas couldn’t see him, and he ran his hands down his face to rid himself of the evidence.

“You know, I really thought we were done with this crap,” he said. “Now that you and me are . . . But, what the hell?” He turned around again, and he didn’t know why he said what he said next. He should have gotten on his knees and begged Cas to stay if that was what he wanted Dean to do. But he was still his father’s son, and much too proud. And much too stupid. “I ain’t stopping you. Go. Leave. Again. Like _always_.”

But Cas didn’t move. He dropped his head, shaking it. “Dean, I have to—.”

“No, you don’t _have_ to do anything! You _want_ to.”

Finally, Cas got angry, and maybe that was the reaction Dean wanted. Maybe he wanted to have a blow out, to end all this. “And what about what you _want_ , Dean?” Cas seethed. “I am _trying_ to give you time to decide what that is, which you clearly won’t do while I’m present.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? I want you to stay! I’ve always wanted you to stay!” Some of the heat left him when he heard his own words, no matter how desperately he tried to cling to it. 

“I want that, too, Dean.”

Then it was simple. “Okay, so stay.”

Apparently, it wasn’t simple. Cas shook his head again. “No. Until your father accepts our relationship . . . Until _you_ accept it, I think—I think it’s best if I went.” 

And there it was, that ultimatum John had been talking about earlier. Dean’s first reaction was to rail against it, to not give in. But this was Cas.

Cas, who was looking at Dean hard, looking for a reason to stay. Waiting for Dean to march outside and tell his father exactly what was going on.

Dean withered, and turned around again. He heard Cas sigh in disappointment.

“Castiel!” Jack yelled from outside, voice muffled by the walls. He was probably calling so they could get on the road. Dean wondered if Jack knew he wasn’t going back to Kansas. 

After a pause into which his eyes burned into Dean’s back, Cas called, “I’m coming!”

He lingered for a few seconds longer, as if hoping that Dean would say something. Dean didn’t know what to say. He opened his mouth, but the only thing that came out was a rattling breath.

Cas walked to the door, opened it slowly. He paused in the doorway, and Dean felt him watching him.

“I’ll call you when we have a lead on Michael.” 

Dean let out a sound he couldn’t control. It could have been a scoff, and it could have been a sob. Cas didn’t close the door behind him.

Dean stayed still for a few moments longer, trying to collect himself. Trying to pick up the pieces. It was no use. He did this. He made Cas do this. He hated himself more than he had in a long time.

All the old fears came back from before they were together. They hit him like a wall. They were why it had taken him so long to tell Cas about how he felt in the first place, why it’d taken an archangel possessing him to finally make him do it. Because he’d ruin it, eventually. Because he’d lose Cas forever. And how was he supposed to live with that? They lasted less than four months. He didn’t think _eventually_ would happen so soon.

And maybe that’s what broke it, like summer’s humidity when it finally started to rain. He needed to catch Cas before he drove off. He couldn’t let him go, because what if he never came back? What if Dean had messed this up for good? 

“Dammit. Cas!” he called, and ran out the door. “Cas, hold on—!”

He skidded to a halt at the sight before him. His family stood at a distance around two newcomers in the parking lot. Sam and Jack were over by the truck, the passenger door left hanging open. Sam had his gun out and trained. John and Mary were by the door to the motel, John’s arm out as if to keep Mary behind him, protected. Dean saw a flash of gold in her curled fist, and realized she was wearing her Enochian brass knuckles. John, like Sam, was holding out his pistol.

Next to Dean, Cas was steadying his angel blade, staring down the two angels who stood between them and the Impala.

The first angel Dean noticed was the waitress, mustard stain and all, who had taken their order at the diner on their first night in Lancaster. They’d been spotted the second they rolled into town. 

The second angel wore a male vessel, towering and well built with a sweep of brown hair. His long coat nearly brushed the tar beneath him. Dean didn’t need to be told who it was. He recognized the stance; the haughty posture, the rigid and steady chin. His own body had been unnaturally bent into that same shape not long ago. 

Michael turned his cool eyes towards Dean. “Dean,” he said, smiling. “Looks like you _are_ here, after all.”

Dean felt himself unfreeze, muscle memory taking over as he reached for his Colt in his waistband and pointed it at Michael. It would be useless, but at least he’d go down swinging.

“You have something of mine,” Michael said, speaking to all of them.

It was John who answered. “Yeah, I’m thinking it’s not yours. Maybe go pick up your own. Try Walmart.” 

Michael laughed joylessly. “Funny. Nice to know you have the same grade-school wit as your son. I admire that.” He took a step closer to John, who raised his pistol higher. Sam and Dean did the same. Michael whistled as if impressed. “But he did worship you. Oh, John, you should have heard some of the thoughts Dean had about _you_. Everything he blames you for. The trauma you put him through. Actually, you know what? I should be thanking you for teaching him to so willingly throw his life away. You really did make him into the perfect weapon for me.” 

Dean felt his stomach flop with nervousness, but John didn’t outwardly react. He only redoubled his grip on his gun. “Shut your mouth,” he warned.

“Or you’ll shoot? Cute.” His grin faded, eyes turning menacing. “Give me the Hand of God and I’ll let you out of this own in own piece.”

“Not happening,” John told him frankly. “See, even if we were gonna give it you, you couldn’t use it. You need me, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yes, I know all about the spell.” Michael didn’t seem too affected by it. His expression turned cat-like, eager to pounce. “And I don’t need _you_. I need your blood. If you won’t give it to me, I’ll just take it.” 

He marched forward, intent on John. All three of them fired a few rounds of angel killing bullets from their guns. Each hit Michael dead on, but they only bounced off of him like the last time. They didn’t even leave a dent.

So, instead, Sam turned his gun on the other angel and put a bullet between her eyes. She lit up in a blast of white.

Michael turned his head to Sam, appearing angry. He flicked his wrist, and Sam went flying against Cas’ truck, hitting it with such impact that the back wheels moved an inch. He was out cold, but Dean heard himself call his name anyway.

“John, get back!” Mary yelled, putting herself between him and Michael. There was fury in her eyes. “Don’t touch my boys,” she spit out, and swung a right hook. The Enochian sigils on her cuffs burned in bright amber. Her fist never connected. Michael grabbed her by the wrist and twisted her around. She cried out in pain at the same time John shouted for her. Michael tossed her to the side like a ragdoll.

John fired a few more rounds, until his empty gun clicked uselessly. And then Jack was standing in front of him, his eyes lit up in yellow. “Leave him alone!” He held up his palm, and circles of light rippled out from it, directed at Michael. They made a warbling sound that caused Dean’s to ears pop.

Michael appeared to struggle, a line of blood dripping from his vessel’s ear. He tried to step forward, but it was as if he was walking against a blizzard wind. But then Jack’s power stuttered and faded, and the light flickered out of his eyes. He thrust his hand out again, trying to muster up his power, but it never came.

Michael recovered. “Nice try, nephew,” he taunted. He bent his arm up and clenched his fist, and Jack shouted out in agony. Dean felt the scream go through him as Jack sunk to his knees, clutching his stomach.

“Jack!” Cas bellowed, and Dean only just caught him by the coat to hold him back before he bounded forward.

Michael seemed to tire of Jack, and flexed his hand. Jack settled, his body going lax. He spat blood onto the tarmac and whimpered in pain.

“Now,” Michael said, focusing back on John. “Your turn.” John tried to throw a punch, but Michael easily deflected it. He grabbed John by the shirt and slammed him against the building’s outer wall.

He was going to kill him.

A half-formed plan popped into Dean’s head.

“Wait!” Dean heard himself yell before he actively decided to do so. It caught Michael’s attention. Dean slowly lowered his gun to the ground and put up his hands in surrender. “You don’t want him. You want me.” 

He walked closer, ignoring Cas’ alarmed, frantic protest of, “Dean, no.” 

“There’s a spell,” Dean told him. Every word out of his mouth was a struggle, his body fighting to shut him up. His limbs rattled uncontrollably in bone-deep terror. He forced himself to continue. “It’ll pass control of the Hand over to me. Let us do the spell and—and you can use me for the weapon.”

“Dean,” John objected. Dean’s eyes flashed to him, begging his father to trust him, before landing back on Michael.

“Just let him go,” Dean asked. “Let all of them go. We’ll do the spell.”

Michael’s gaze was hungry and feral as he considered it. Dean felt like he might retch, but he forced it down.

John dropped, off-balanced, as Michael released him and strode towards Dean. “You’d let me in again? No going back this time?”

Dean swallowed hard. He almost said _yes_ , but thought better of his word choice. “Only if you promise to let them go.” Yeah, because Michael’s promises were worth so much. 

“Why? Your father’s a dead man already.”

Maybe he wasn’t. There were still the websites Dean had sent to Sam. Sam would find a way to save John. They could be a family—the three of them.

“Just let them go,” Dean said again. 

Michael seemed to mull it over, and then humor came to his expression. “Nah,” he said, and the next thing Dean knew, his hand was on his neck. Dean was lifted into the air, the crushing hold of Michael’s fingers digging into his windpipe. He scrambled for Michael’s wrist, trying to free himself. He fought for air, but it only got choked in his throat. This is what it had felt like, too—being possessed. He couldn’t breathe. 

Dean heard Cas and John shout for him. He heard Sam, who must have come to. There was nothing any of them could do. 

“I was inside your head, Dean. I know you too well. You can’t fool me,” Michael said, but Dean was barely listening with how hard he was struggling. White lights began firing in his vision. “You think, if I take you as my vessel, you can overcome me again. You think you can give your father enough time to use the Hand of God against me. Against _us_.” He laughed mercilessly. Something fuzzy and black, like a vignette on the closing frame of an old movie, began creeping into Dean’s vision, no matter how much he tried to stay conscious. His legs stopped kicking.

“You would sacrifice yourself,” Michael went on, “but it would all be for noth—.” Suddenly, he howled in pain, and Dean dropped hard to the ground. Air burned back into his lungs. 

Cas was behind Michael, his blade sunk into Michael’s back. His teeth were bared when he pulled it out, bloody and glistening. Michael turned slowly to face him, and Dean wanted to shout for Cas to run.

“Wrong move, Castiel,” Michael said. He slammed his fist into Cas’ gut, ripping right through his skin and muscle with a flat squelching noise. Cas tried to make some sound, but it only came out a gag. The bright white light of his grace was shining around Michael’s arm as Michael gripped it inside of him, hacking and scratching and tearing away.

“No!” Dean yelled as Cas’ eyes started to illuminate and blood spilled out of his mouth. Quickly, Michael yanked his arm back. His fist and the top of his sleeve were crimson. Cas crumpled to the ground, writhing in pain as grace continued to shine out of the hole in his torso.

Dean thought of that house in Washington next to the lake. He thought of two bodies burning, smoke rising up to meet the night.

He rolled over, scrambled for his gun and fired. And, this time, the shots landed. Michael jerked back, more out of surprise and momentum than of pain. Dean didn’t know why. Maybe Jack had weakened him, maybe the angel blade did. He didn’t care. He pulled the trigger again, and kept shooting.

He heard a second set of gunshots go off just fractionally out of sink with his own. Sam was riddling bullets into Michael, too.

Michael’s vessel reacted each time a bullet hit home, jerking sporadically. Then, there was a shuffling of wings and he was gone. He was probably just regrouping, taking a minute to collect his strength and lick his wounds. He wouldn’t be gone long. 

Dean crawled to Cas, who was still squirming and clutching his stomach, trying to keep the bright white light and blood inside. Both seeped through the cracks in his fingers. 

“Cas?” Dean rasped out, small and afraid, his throat sore. He could still feel Michael’s hands around him. He got himself to his knees, and his hands flew to Cas—one on his shoulder to keep him from thrashing too violently and furthering the damage, the other cupping his face.

Responding to the touch, Cas finally seemed to realize Dean was there. His eyes were bloodshot and alert when they found Dean, and Dean tried not to let his panic show in his gaze. “Dean,” he gritted out from behind his teeth. He reached up and clenched Dean’s jacket, twisting it in his fist. Dean hardly noticed the others stumbling over to crowd around them. 

“Michael—he’ll be back. You have to—go.”

“I know, I know,” Dean placated. “We’re going.” He reached into his pocket and took out his keys, throwing them to John. “Get the car started.” As John rushed to the Impala, Dean dug through Cas’ coat, fishing for the truck’s keys. When he found them, he tossed them to Sam, who caught them seamlessly. “Sam, go ahead. Find some place safe we can keep him.”

Sam nodded, his eyes big and fixed on Cas, but he turned and ran to the truck. Mary went after him, hopping into the Charger.

“No, Dean,” Cas managed to say, regaining his attention. His voice was breathy with effort, and Dean saw sweat collecting on his hairline. Or maybe that was the rain. Drops began sprinkling down, causing dark pockmarks on the tar. “I’ll just—slow you down. Leave me.” But his fist tightened on Dean’s jacket.

“Stop talkin’ crazy, Cas.”

He heard the Impala’s engine rumble into life. He heard Sam and Mary tear off onto the road towards the highway.

“Dean, I mean it—.”

“No!” He hadn’t meant to yell, but his panic was rising and he didn’t want to hear it. Cas couldn’t give up. Dean wouldn’t let him give up. “I ain’t leaving you, you hear me? _Ever_!” 

Cas’ eyes got redder, as did the tip of his nose. His chin shivered slightly, but Dean was sure that was only from the freezing rain. 

Dean looked up at Jack, petrified while standing over them. “Help me get him in the car.” Jack didn’t move. He didn’t even appear to have heard. “Jack! Help me!” 

Jack kick started back into life. Limping slightly, he took Cas’ legs while Dean braced him under the arms. Cas let out a cry as they lifted him, even though Dean was trying his best to go slow. “I know, I know, babe. It hurts, I know,” he whispered as they maneuvered him into the Impala. “It’s alright. Almost there.”

John was ready with the back door when they reached it, and the three of them carefully put Cas inside, feet first, across the bench seat. He grunted the entire time, body spasming and locking up. Dean slid inside the car and cradled Cas’ head and shoulders in his lap. He put pressure on Cas’ wound, but the red and the white kept flowing from it. The blood squelched and the grace sang.

“It’s alright. It’s not that bad. You’ve had worse. Quit bein’ such a baby,” he said as John got back into the driver’s seat and Jack slid into the front passenger side. Before Jack had fully closed the door, the Impala was bouncing out of the parking lot and squealing down the road.

“Jack,” Cas hissed out, suddenly frantic.

Jack angled around in his seat. “I’m here, Castiel. I’m fine.” Cas seemed to settle, and Jack took Cas’ hand in his. He appeared to be concentrating hard, staring down at their locked hands. His eyes flashed back and forth from yellow to their usual blue, like sparks flying from a struck match that refused to light.

“Can you heal him?” Dean asked, half-hopeful and half-wary; because when had anything in their lives ever been that easy?

“I’m trying! It’s—it’s not _working_!” Jack stammered. He must have used up all his mojo trying to stop Michael. Dean saw him grip Cas’ hand tighter. “I can _do_ this! I have to do this!”

“Jack, this isn’t your fault,” Cas grated out.

At the same time, Dean encouraged, “It’s okay, kid. You’re doing great.”

“Dean,” Cas said. “You—you should have left me.”

“Stop,” Dean asked him. He put his free hand on Cas’ cheek again, idly sweeping his thumb against the bone. “I told you, I’m not leaving you.”

“I was going to leave you.”

Dean eked out a laugh that was far too wet. It left it a bitter taste in his mouth. “Yeah, well, guess I’m the bigger person." 

To Dean’s great dismay, Cas didn’t roll his eyes or snap back something sarcastic. He agreed with him. “Yes, you are. You—you—always have been.” 

John swerved onto the highway, hitting a pothole in the process. The car jounced fiercely, and Cas yelled. The light coming from his wound flared, bleaching the car’s interior and casting shadows. The otherworldly hum of it kicked up a few decimals. It quickly died back down.

“Sorry!” John called, his eyes in the rearview. “How’s he doing back there?” 

Dean didn’t answer. He looked ahead at the taillights of Cas’ truck, spattered and glinting with ivory and crimson through the rain on the glass. He saw the Charger merge into the left lane to speed past the car in front of it. Sam did the same thing, and John revved the engine despite the headlights bound for them in the near distance. He made it safely back to the right side of the road just in time for the oncoming car to whiz past them, blaring its horn the entire time.

His phone started to vibrate in his pocket, and he swiftly removed his hand from Cas’ face to answer it. He put it on speaker. “Yeah, Sam?”

“I found a motel about ten miles up the highway,” Sam’s voice came through, static and metallic. He sounded too calm, in the forced way he did when he was freaking out on the inside. Dean couldn’t control himself in the same way at the moment. “It’s off exit ninety-five. Take a left off the ramp and drive for another three miles. It looks pretty out of the way. Mom’s driving ahead now to get us a room.” 

Even as he said it, Dean heard the kickback of the Charger’s engine as it zoomed out of sight. 

“Just follow me. I got it in the GPS,” Sam instructed before hanging up. Dean pocketed the phone again.

“You got that?” he asked John. 

John nodded in the mirror. His knuckles were pale against the steering wheel and his expression was tense but collected. “Yeah.”

Dean focused his attention back on Cas, who was losing color in his face. His skin was waxy, like cheap plastic. His breath was coming out in choppy, labored huffs. “You hear that, Cas? We’re almost there.”

Cas gritted his teeth. “I don’t—think a motel—will help me very much.”

Forcing a grin that definitely looked more like a grimace than anything remotely happy, Dean said, “You kidding me? ‘Course it will! A mini-bar? Few days rest with some magic fingers? You’ll be good as new. Maybe they even got free HBO, huh? We—we’re not caught up on _Westworld_ yet, remember?” 

It was stupid, but the thought of never being able to finish some TV show with Cas made his heart sink.

Cas inhaled deeply, raggedly. “I am.”

Dean blinked, dumbfounded. “What?” 

“I am. I watched ahead while you were asleep.”

Dean worked his jaw in disbelief and disappointment. “You son of a bitch.”

His grace blazed again, and his shout filled up the entire car, making Dean’s ears ache, as if to remind Dean that he couldn’t be angry with him while he was bleeding out. When the eruption faded, it settled into an erratic pulsing, like the beat of a stammering heart. Dean didn’t want to show how scared that made him, so he pushed it down and focused on other things. 

“It’s okay. You know what? It’s okay. I’m not even mad,” he said, even though he was a little mad. “You’ll just have to watch it again with me.” 

Cas nodded fervently in promise, but Dean could tell he was just shy of believing it. It made him go cold, numb. He was slammed back into reality when Cas coughed up blood, staining his teeth and chin. Dean wiped it away with his thumb.

When Cas’ eyes swept back to him, they were cloudy and distant, and small pinpricks of white light shone in the dead center of his pupils before fading away again. His eyes started to roll back and flutter shut.

Dean panicked. “Hey, no—no, hey. Cas.” He lightly slapped Cas’ cheek until he came to again. “Stay with me, baby. We’re almost there. Stay with me.”

When Cas spoke again, his voice was hardly a whisper. “Dean.” He fumbled for Dean’s jacket collar again, but his hand slid as if skidding on ice, and he ended up grabbing Dean’s sleeve. “I’m—I’m sorry, Dean. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—have said those things.” 

Dean shook his head. “Don’t worry about that now.” 

But Cas wouldn’t hear it. “No, I—Listen to me. I didn’t want to leave. I— _don’t_ want to—leave. These last few months have been—more than I could have ever hoped for. I—I wanted more—time.” His voice was thicker now, choked. He reached up again and grazed Dean’s face with his knuckles. Dean sighed, his eyes slipping closed as he chased the touch. When he opened his eyes again, Cas was staring at him. “I would have spent the rest of eternity with you.”

Dean wanted to say _you can_ and _we will_ and _you’re going to be okay_. But his throat was clogged with something slow moving and dense, and an ugly and stuttered sound escaped him instead.

Cas drew his hand away from Dean’s face, and he struggled to fish for something in his coat pocket. Eventually, he pulled out his cell phone with shaking hands. It illuminated with the notification for the text Dean had sent him the previous night.

“I love you, too,” Cas said. “Dean. _MONONS MALPRIG_.”

Dean didn’t know what to say, what to do. He felt too small, too helpless, vacant. He just kept staring down at Cas, Cas staring back—until he began blinking far too rapidly and his eyes finally closed. His hold on his cell phone slackened and his head lolled. 

“Cas!” Dean called, trying to shake him awake again to no avail. “No! Cas.” He shifted Cas on his lap, wrapping both arms more tightly around him. Cas’ body limply turned into Dean’s chest. 

Jack let out a loud, frustrated sound that was something between exertion and a wail. He gripped Cas’ hand with both of his.

“What’s going on back there?” John demanded. “Is he still alive?” 

Dean looked at the light still radiating from the wound. He assumed that meant Cas was unconscious, but still clinging to life. He latched onto that hope with his teeth, refusing to let it go. He wondered if Cas could hear the prayers Dean was no doubt giving off, or if even that was lost to him.

“Drive faster.” But he knew the Impala was going as fast as it could. And he didn’t have an actual plan for what to do after they reached their destination. He just needed to take it a step at a time: get to the motel, get Cas inside. The rest would follow. 

He convinced himself into thinking that, if only they made it to the motel in time, Cas would be all right somehow.

The next ten miles seemed to stretch on for hours, but they finally made it to the small, one story motel on the country road. It had a dirt parking lot, and the buzzing vacancy sign was missing three letters. It was the only building in eyesight, and the sound of the cars on the highway was just a distance whoosh. Dean didn’t have time to think about how this business had stayed open; he was just glad that it did. 

It was pouring by the time they parked in front of the door Mary was holding open, warm light spilling out and casting her shadow on the concrete floor. Sam jumped out of the truck and helped Dean lift Cas out of the Impala. John went to the trunk and grabbed the duffle with the Hand of God inside. 

The rain instantly soaked Dean’s jacket and flattened it hair. It sputtered into his mouth, and his boots sloshed in puddles on the compacted mud as they moved Cas inside. Jack was gripping Cas’ hand the whole time, but had to let go when they went through the room’s door. When they deposited Cas on the only bed in the room, Jack got to his knees and latched back onto him, still trying his damnedest to heal him. His eyes were no longer yielding to yellow. 

Mary closed the door and locked it. She finished the warding sigil she’d spray painted on the back of it now that Cas was inside, and then quickly drew the curtains. John set the duffle on the table.

“What do we do?” Sam asked, some of his calm gone now that he’d seen Cas unconscious. He ran his hands through his hair, causing thick droplets to fling onto the floor. He expected Dean to have all the answers, because Dean was the big brother, because Dean always knew what to do. But he didn’t. He had no idea. 

A pool was dripping onto the carpet around Dean. “I don’t know,” he barked back, too scared to think. He needed to _think_. 

By then, all of Sam’s cool demeanor was gone. His voice was a deep roar when he yelled, “We don’t even know what Michael did to him!”

“I know!” Dean shouted back. “There’s gotta be something! A spell! Something. Call Rowena, Bobby—Charlie. One of them’s gotta know something!” 

Sam straightened out, his eyes on the bed behind Dean, his face going pale. “I don’t think we’re gonna have time for that.”

Dean didn’t want to turn around. He felt something drip from his chest to his stomach. Dread pressed in on the back of his neck, sending a shiver through him. He looked over his shoulder. The light of Cas’ grace was dimmer than before, smaller. It was fading. 

“Cas?” He turned around fully and took a few steps closer to the bed, but he stopped short. His hands hung uselessly at his sides, the rainwater dripping pink off the tips of his fingers as it mixed with the blood on his skin. He didn’t know what to do. 

 _Tell me what to do, Cas_ , he prayed. _Wake up and tell me what to do._  

Cas didn’t stir.

He looked around the room, like there was something in a place that hadn’t been refurbished since the eighties that could revive Cas. His eyes landed on the duffle bag, on the object straining against the fabric. His heart leapt.

He made for the bag and unzipped it hurriedly, pulling out the Hand. “We can use this,” he said, voice ragged, and started to unwrap it.

“What?” Sam asked, not following.

Dean whipped around to face him. He knew he must have looked crazy with his eyes so wide, but he didn’t care. “You—you said it doesn’t just kill things, right? It can heal, too?”

“Yeah, I mean—.”

“So, it can fix Cas.” Dean turned to his father, holding out the staff for him to take. “You can heal him, Dad. You can use this to fix him.” 

John didn’t move. He only stared at Dean pointedly. Dean let out a noise of frustration and grabbed John’s hand, pushing the staff into his fist. 

“Fix him!”

John looked down at the Hand of God, placing his other hand on it, too. He sighed. “No, Dean.”

Dean shook his head to get the water out of his ears. He knew he hadn’t heard John right. “Come again?”

“I said no,” John clarified, his gaze moving back up to Dean.

Dean blinked, his eyelashes clumping together. He didn’t understand. He felt himself shiver again, but not from the cold. He couldn’t feel that anymore. Actually, he couldn’t feel much of anything at the moment. “Why not?”

“Because we can only use it once.” 

“Okay. And?”

“And, we need to use it on Michael. To kill him.”

Dean realized he’d forgotten all about Michael. He decided, “Screw Michael. We’ll find another way to take his ass out.”

“And if there isn’t one?” John challenged, his tone suggested he was beginning to get frustrated. 

“There’s gotta be—.” 

“If there _isn’t_?” His eyes moved behind Dean briefly. “He wanted Michael dead, too,” he said, and the use of the past tense wasn’t lost on Dean. It made him flinch. “I won’t be around much longer, Dean. I need to know that my family is safe before I leave.”

“And what about Cas? He’s not safe,” Dean said, gesturing behind him but not daring to look. “He’s like this because he was trying to save us! And you’re just gonna stand here and watch him die?” His stomach turned in disgust. John might have been okay with holding a vigil for Cas, but Dean wasn’t.

Dean wasn’t building another funeral pyre for him.

“Dean,” John said again. “If Michael lives, he’ll kill billions of people. I won’t be responsible for that.”

So, it was a guilt thing? Fine. If John didn’t want to bear it, Dean would take that weight off his shoulders—like he’d been doing his whole life. “Then do the spell. Pass control of it to me. I’ll do it.”

John seemed disappointed, but Dean wasn’t interested in that. “Even if I did know how to do that right now, I wouldn’t. I can’t allow you to make that mistake.” 

“Mistake?” Dean scoffed. Cas wasn’t a mistake. He was the only decision Dean ever made that wasn’t a mistake. 

“Dean,” Mary said, her voice thick, hesitant. “Maybe he’s right.”

That was the final straw. “No! _Dammit_! This is _Cas_!” He said it like it was a reason, because it was. And it had always been reason enough.

“Honey, he wanted—.” 

Dean didn’t care what he _wanted_ , and he care how that sentence ended. “Quit talking about him like he’s already dead! We can fix him!”

“Dean,” John said shortly. “I made my decision, and it’s final.”

Dean clammed up, something in him shutting down at the words. John had uttered that same sentence countless times before, and Dean had always followed it to the letter. Going against it would be wrong, stupid. It would be going against his conditioning.

His heart sank, and then he felt empty. He looked at Mary, whose eyes were red. He looked at Sam, whose face was contorted, already mourning; who swallowed hard and jerked his head a few times in attempt to control his emotions before giving up and turning away. He looked at Jack, who was still clutching Cas’ hands, grief-stricken but with eyes still so hopeful and trusting that Dean would find a way.

He looked at Cas. Whose light was barely visible now. Whose skin was pallid and glossy. Whose eyes were closed as if he were sleeping. Who body was just an empty shell. Who Dean would never wake up to again, would never watch movies with again, would never fight with and laugh with and kiss again.

He dragged his hand down his mouth, and became aware of the sticky blood he’d smeared on his face. Cas’ blood. It shook something loose in his chest. The grief fell like cold and the searing fury rose. 

There was still a little bit of light left. Dean would be damned if he let it fade for good.

“No,” he said clearly, turning back to his father. He couldn’t figure out if his voice was shaking with anger or fear. “You’re gonna take that thing in your hands, and you’re gonna fix him.”

John looked at him like he was insane. “Excuse me?”

“This isn’t your decision. You don’t get to _decide_ this,” Dean spit out, stepping up close to him.

“I have _always_ gone along with what you decided. My entire life is because of things you decided. I became a hunter—instead of going to study hall and playing baseball and asking pretty girls to dances and having a home, instead of being a kid. Because you decided to go after the thing that killed Mom over giving your sons a life. I raised him—,” he pointed at Sam. “I kept him fed and clothed and tried to give him things I never had because you decided that you’d rather fight monsters than take care of him. I worked job after job in the heat and the snow and rain, trying to keep a roof over our heads. I did things I wasn’t proud of for cash, because you _decided_ to drink it all away.”

He felt pressure behind his eyes, burning hot hatred. Because it wasn’t fair.

“And then I was supposed to die. _I_ was supposed to die, and you decided to take my place. To saddle me with that. And what you told me before you died?” He nodded to Sam, shaking a tear loose. “About him?” Dean shook his head, trying to hold onto the anger, to keep down the sadness. “I did everything you ever asked me to do. I did more. You don’t get to ask this. You don’t get to _decide_ this.”

He felt something heavy lift off of him, something he’d gotten so accustomed to that he’d forgotten it’d been there at all. But it all came shattering back down when John said softly, “Dean . . .”

And he knew he was going to let him down. Again. Dean didn’t want to hear it. He was tired of it. Because his father was a hypocrite, Dean yelled, “If it was Mom, would you do it?”

John blinked, shocked at the outburst, but he knew Dean was right.

He felt himself crumble. “Please, Dad. Please.” He shrugged, and he wasn’t afraid anymore, because what the hell else could he lose by saying it? “I love ‘im.”

He smiled around the words, even though it was weak, even now, despite everything. He loved Cas. He loved him. He should have told him sooner. They could have had more time. They could have had years.

John looked down at the weapon in his hands, and Dean was sure he would say no again. He was preparing himself for it as best he could. And then John said, “Jack, move out of the way.”

Dean’s heart stopped. He wasn’t sure whether to be hopeful or terrified.

John crossed the room to the duffle bag and pulled out a knife. He cut a line into his right palm, and then unwrapped the Hand of God. It immediately began to glow when he touched it. 

Jack obediently jumped to his feet and moved away, running to stand close to Sam. Dean watched, spellbound, as the light reached John’s eyes, the power flowing through him. It burned bright, making the dull light coming from the lamps dark in comparison. He heard Mary let out a breath from behind him.

John pointed the staff to Cas on the bed, and there was a loud zapping sound. At once, Cas was engulfed in the white light. It sang around him. Dean didn’t want to look away, but he had to. He turned his head, still trying to squint forwards. He raised his forearm over his eyes as a shield in attempt to block out the light. He could only just make out the outline of Cas on the bed.

And then the light faded, but Dean’s ears were still ringing. John gasped; his limbs were shaking like he’d run a marathon. He leaned back against the table. Mary was at his side in a second, wrapping her arms around one of his to hold him upright.

Dean’s eyes were on Cas. The hole in his gut was gone, but his blood still stained his shirt. He stayed still for a long time, long enough for Dean to wonder if it had worked. Maybe they’d been too late. Maybe Cas was already gone. 

And then Cas’ eyes opened. He stared blankly up at the ceiling. 

“Cas?” Dean asked, the word getting stuck in his throat.

Cas blinked, his vision coming into focus. He propped himself up on his elbows, but it looked like it took a lot of effort. “Dean?” 

Sam and Jack both let out small laughs of relief. 

Dean felt a smile creep back onto his cheeks. He moved closer to the bed, holding his hands out to support Cas. “Hey, buddy. Welcome back.”

“How—?” Cas frowned, looking around the room. His eyes landed on the burnt out Hand of God still clutched in John’s fist. Horror passed over his features. “Dean, you didn’t. You were supposed to use that to kill Michael. Nothing’s more important than that.” 

Dean wanted to laugh, because of course the first thing Cas would do after they saved his ass was give them a lecture about self-sacrifice. He sat down on the bed, and almost told Cas that, if Dean lost him, he wouldn’t really care if the rest of the world ended bloody.

“Well, you’re wrong about that.”

Cas wasn’t able to respond to that. His expression softened, and he looked at Dean in that way again—like the formations of the stars and the canyons and the seas paled in comparison. Dean folded Cas into his arms and brought him in close to his chest. He wanted to keep him there for good. Cas seemed happy to stay. 

Dean looked over his shoulder, his cheek resting on top of Cas’ hair, to where John was standing, watching them.

“Thanks, Dad,” he said, his voice cracking around the words.

John tried for a small smile, but there was too much shame in it. He rested the Hand of God on the table. They didn’t need it anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

There was light, sanguine behind Castiel’s eyelids. He tilted his face towards it before he even opened his eyes, feeling it warm on his cheek. All of him was warm: his feet beneath the blanket, tangled at the ankles with another pair; his side, where he felt the hard, straight planes of the body crowded against him; his chest, where the weight of Dean’s head was pressed against his heart, and the curve of Dean’s arm was slung over his torso.

He blinked awake, his human eyes dilating to adjust to the morning sun pouring through the crack between the carelessly closed motel curtains. He wanted to sit up, to look down at his stomach to inspect it for the wound Michael had left behind, where he had cut through to his grace and squeezed until it bled out of him. He’d felt it draining away. He’d been dying. But now, his grace ebbed throughout him, curling in on itself like a wounded animal. Usually, it burned as bright and fast as a comet.

There wasn’t much he remembered from the previous night. He recalled waking up, and Dean holding him until everyone else left the room to check into other ones for the night. It was a blur after that, but there were flashes: Dean carefully undressing him, tepid water and the sweet smell of soap, the scratch of a washcloth on his cheeks, Dean’s sure touch wiping away the blood, Dean helping him into fresh clothes. It was all in bits and pieces that snagged together and overlapped.

Mostly, he remembered Dean kissing him—quick, frantic, terrified things. On his lips, his nose, his cheeks, his forehead. He remembered every kiss.

He shifted a little, stretching out his limbs tentatively, joints popping and wings splaying laboriously against the mattress just out of the realm of human perception. He had tried to be careful, tried not to wake Dean, but Dean took in a sharp breath and tensed against him. Castiel’s arm, already beneath Dean, wrapped around his back to hold his shoulder. 

Dean’s eyes fluttered open, the green of them out of focus for a few seconds as he fully came into consciousness. When he finally did, he looked up at Castiel and started slightly. “You’re awake.”

“I am,” Castiel said. “I’m more surprised that I fell asleep.”

Dean yawned, his shock obviously having died away. “Well, you were still pretty out of it. Maybe you just needed to recharge.” He stretched against Castiel like a cat, body twisting and pushing until it abruptly relaxed again. He’d done that many times. This was the first time Castiel had done it, too.

“I like waking up to you,” he admitted, and Dean looked away bashfully.

Dean’s hand cupped around Castiel’s ribs, and he idly began stroking his thumb against the fabric of his shirt; but Castiel still felt it on his skin, no matter how removed. Dean tracked his own movement for a long while before he said, “Listen, Cas, about before—I was bein’ an ass. I should’a told my Dad about us sooner.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow in something akin to humor. He’d nearly died; he didn’t have it in him anymore to be angry with Dean, especially after Dean had sacrificed their one shot at Michael to save him. “Is Dean Winchester apologizing?”

Dean scoffed like the idea was ridiculous, caught Cas’ eyes, looked away again, and then blushed. “Shut up,” he muttered. “But yeah.”

Tightening his grip on Dean’s shoulder, Castiel replied, “I apologize, too, Dean.” To that, Dean looked up again, like that was the last thing he expected to hear. “I know your father is a complicated man, as is your relationship with him. I shouldn’t have added to your anxiety.”

Dean nodded, chewing on his bottom lip. “Thanks." 

They both had reacted poorly, only to find themselves at odds with each other as they had so often in the past. He would have thought such strain would have dissipated from their relationship once they became more than friends to each other. But it was still there, the same as ever. It comforted him somewhat that nothing had changed between them, but he knew such things needed to be worked on if they were going to last. 

He would very much like to last. 

“I think,” he sighed, “you and I—maybe we’re still learning how to be together. As more than we were before.”

Dean mulled it over. “Yeah, maybe.” And then, “Do you think we’ll ever get the hang of it?”

Castiel didn’t have to ponder for long before saying, “I hope so.”

“Well, meantime, I’m willing to stick it out if you are.”

There was something vulnerable in Dean’s gaze, as thought Castiel could ever say no.

“Yeah. I am.”

Dean’s lips pressed into a small smile, and he eased them into a kiss. Castiel kissed back, slow and heady and without rush or constraint. Dean was making small noises. His ankles started to roll and rub against Castiel’s. Castiel put his other arm around him and dragged him half on top of him. Dean complied easily. His hand moved down Castiel’s side, to go up and under his shirt.

Castiel sighed into the contact, and it dawned on him again that he was alive, made flesh. He had never truly considered this body his own until Dean touched him. He found his sense of self in the tracks Dean’s fingertips left in their wake.

Then Dean’s fingers grazed the still tender skin where Michael had wounded him, and Castiel hissed—more from shock than pain. It thudded dully now.

Dean pulled away marginally. “Shit, sorry! You okay?”

Castiel nodded, feeling the sensation subside. It wasn’t his body that needed repairing. His grace was severely weakened, mutilated and bent out of shape from Michael’s hands. His insides were shredded. He was exhausted and achy and _hungry_ —his human body taking over for where his grace lacked. It would take time to heal.

“I’m fine,” Castiel said. “But I—.” He didn’t know how to put it. The night before, when Jack had been flipping through the TV channels, he’d paused on a commercial for a chain diner promoting their half-stack of buttermilk pancakes. He didn’t know why he was thinking of them now, but he wanted them.

“What?” Dean asked, concern etched into his face. 

Castiel looked off in thought, brows stitching together. “I have a craving for pancakes.”

A look of surprise passed over Dean’s expression. His eyebrows shot upward. “You want _pancakes_?”

“Yes. With maple syrup.”

For some reason, Dean found humor in that. His expression lit up. “Well, alright! If my baby wants pancakes, we’re gonna get him some damn pancakes.”

Castiel felt himself smile as Dean leaned in again to press a closed mouth, lingering kiss to his lips, and the only thing he wanted more than pancakes in that moment was to continue doing that. 

But then there was a knock at the door. Sam’s voice was muffled by the wood. “Hey, you guys up? I think we’re trying to move out.”

Dean kissed him one more time before getting out of bed and padding to the door. He opened it, and Castiel squinted in the sudden onslaught of sunlight.

“Hey,” Dean muttered to Sam, and Sam said it back. He turned around and walked back to bed, sitting up but throwing the blankets over his legs to combat the chill Castiel suddenly felt.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam said, a smile coming to his face. He pulled out a chair from the table and pulled it closer to the bed, gaze checking Castiel for any visible injuries as he did so. “How’re you feeling?”

Castiel sat up slowly, the stiffness in his stomach making itself known again. Dean’s hands immediately shot out to hover around him in case he required assistance. “Well, I’m not dying. So, better, I suppose.”

When Dean realized Castiel was okay on his own, he dropped his hands downwards, one reaching to Castiel’s on his lap and lacing their fingers together.

Sam gave a sort of half-laugh. “Good. You really freaked us out for a minute there.”

“Apologies.”

Castiel’s name sounded from the open doorway in an excitable voice. Jack came bounding though, and jumped into the bed between Castiel and Dean. He pulled his legs under himself, sitting back on his ankles and beaming at Castiel. “How are you? Sam and I had trouble sleeping worrying about you.”

Castiel tried to smile, guilty for causing them stress and sleeplessness, but a little warm in knowing they cared for him. “I’m okay,” he told Jack. “Are you? Michael hurt you.”

Jack’s smile faltered only for a second, and only slightly. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m healed.”

And Castiel was glad to hear it.

The rectangle of sunlight streaming through the door was blocked suddenly, and everyone turned to find Mary and John standing in the threshold. Briefly, Castiel thought Dean would tear his hand away, but he didn’t. He squeezed it slightly more, and Castiel squeezed back.

“Hey, Castiel. Good to see you awake,” Mary said sweetly.

“It’s good to be awake,” he said, even though he was still sleepy. Then, his eyes slid to John, and he found he was truly grateful. “John. Thank you for saving my life.”

John palmed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Yeah, uh—don’t mention it.”

It appeared the inability to be thanked ran in the Winchester genes.

Castiel didn’t expect John to say anything else, but he did. “I—I’m glad you’re feelin’ better.”

Next to him, Castiel felt Dean relax. Perhaps this was John’s way of extending an olive branch. If it made Dean content, Castiel would accept. After all, a man who put his son’s happiness over the fate of the world, no matter how misguided, couldn’t have been too bad. Maybe Castiel had judged him too harshly too soon. Maybe they’d misjudged one another. 

“So, we shouldn’t hang out here too much longer in case the angels are still looking for us,” John went on, glossing past the previous moment. “Won’t be too happy when they find out the Hand’s used up. Better be on the road by the time they figure it out.”

Everyone seemed to agree on that point. 

“In the cars. Ten minutes. Chop, chop,” John said, rapping his knuckles on the doorframe before standing up straight to leave. 

Dean halted him. “Hey, Dad, you think when we get to a safe enough distance, we can find a diner?”

John seemed amused. “Isn’t it a little early for a cheeseburger, Dean?”

Dean smiled sheepishly, readjusting their hands on Castiel’s lap. He was gazing as Castiel as he said, “Yeah, it’s just—we’re in the mood for some pancakes.”

Castiel couldn’t stop staring back, even when he heard John say, a grin in his tone, “Pancakes, it is.”

 

///

 

It was late by the time they made it back to the bunker, and everyone dragged their heels down the stairs into the war room. Cas had slept most of drive as Dean scrubbed through the radio stations every time one turned to static in search of the softest rock available. He kept it on a low volume so it wouldn’t wake him.

Before steering Cas towards their bedroom with a hand to his lower back, Dean glanced at the candle still burning on the table in the library. The flame had dwindled in the last couple of days, which made a stone form in his throat, but it was still higher than he’d expected. He swallowed, and cast a look in Sam’s direction, silently telling him they needed to broaden their search.

Dean tried to do just that. He took a few books from the library and sifted through them in bed by the gentle glow of his lamp while Cas slept facing the opposite direction. He read until his eyes burned with exhaustion and his wrist ached from note taking; but when he gave in and turned out the light, sleep wouldn’t find him. He tossed and turned for a few frustrated hours, made bearable only by the sound of Cas’ breathing. Dean watched him sleep for a while, completely aware of the irony but not bothering to care. He even thought, maybe, he understood why Cas did it so much to him.

Another hour went by before he carefully got out of bed, threw on his robe, and, rubbing his eyes, padded towards the library. If he wasn’t going to sleep, the least he could do was more research.

John was already in there, not doing much other than staring into a finger of whiskey. It was a sight Dean had seen so many times, he’d lost count—but it was different now. He looked less tense, but still just as haunted. It stirred the same response it always had in Dean: to care for, the shoulder the burden.

“Dad?” Dean asked, a little surprised at seeing John there. 

John looked up, appearing as if he hadn’t heard Dean come in. He pushed a small, weak smile. “Hey, Dean.” He didn’t hold Dean’s stare for long, but brought his back down to the table. Dean realized it was the first time John had looked at him directly all day. The thought made something like panic slosh in his gut, mixed with bitterness—because his father was really going to avoid him, just because he was in love. 

But then John asked, “How’s Cas doing?” Dean faltered, the use of the nickname not lost on him. The fact that John had asked about him at all made Dean think maybe he’d been wrong.

“He’s alive,” Dean told him, and slid onto the chair across the table from him, “thanks to you.”

John ran his thumb up and down his glass. “Thanks to you.”

Dean got a long look at him, taking in the lines of his expression. He knew his father’s guilty-face when he saw it; only problem was, he didn’t know what it was for. Either way, the expression was probably mirrored on his own face, and he knew why he was culpable.

“Listen, Dad,” he started. “About last night. I said some pretty fucked up things to you—.”

John was shaking his head, and it made Dean pause. “No, Dean, you were right.”

And, yeah, so, maybe he was. Maybe it had even felt good to say them. But, “Doesn’t mean I had to say it like that.”

“Yes, you did. It was the only way I would have listened.” He looked up, finally, and Dean realized what was bothering him. He felt bad, in a way, for being the reason. John seemed to consider him for a minute, and then went on, “Your entire life, I treated you like an adult. Now that you are one, I was treating you like a kid. I was too hard on you, Dean. Always have been. I wish I hadn’t put all that on your shoulders. I wish—.” He grimaced back down at his drink. “I should’a been a better father to you boys.”

Dean almost didn’t know how to respond, hearing John apologize to him. And maybe he did have something to apologize for. Maybe they all did. But not about that.

“Bullshit,” Dean told him, and John’s head jerked up in shock. “You were a great dad. I mean, yeah, me and Sammy—our lives haven’t exactly been a cake walk. But we help people. We save the world. And that’s because of what you taught us. And I wouldn’t change that, not for anything.”

He found he meant it. He wouldn’t know what to do with a normal life, anyway. He’d tried it, with Lisa and Ben. During that time, he’d tried to convince himself every day that it was what he really wanted. When he’d been on the outside, he thought it had been. But the dream was different than the reality, and he wasn’t built for it. He spent most of his days just trying to get through, trying to keep it together, but his eyes were still on the horizon and he could still feel the whoosh of the road under his shoes.

Truth was, he had one foot out the door a long time before Sam showed up.

Cas knew it. He’d known before Dean had. A long time ago, before he knocked on Lisa’s door for the last time, Cas had asked him what he wanted—peace or freedom. The question replayed in Dean’s head every day after that. He hadn’t answered at the time, because he wanted both, and he knew better than to wish for impossible things. But now he had it; and, back then, neither of them knew Cas would be one of the biggest reasons he did.

“We got everything we need, Dad,” he said. “I mean, look at us. We have a home. We have each other—and our family. We got good people in our lives that wouldn’t be here if we weren’t hunters.” Like Bobby, Charlie, Jody and Donna and the girls. Like Jack. Like Cas.

“We’re good, all things considered.”

He felt the corner of his mouth quirk up briefly as he thought about it.

Peace _and_ freedom. Ain’t that the damndest thing? 

“I’m good.” 

Letting John off the hook felt better than putting him on it, Dean realized. He’d blamed him for so much for so long, even if he pretended to himself that he didn’t. He wanted to let that go. This seemed like a good place to start. 

John nodded downwards, his mouth twisting with emotion. “I’m glad to hear that. You know, that’s all I ever wanted for you and Sam? Even if I had a funny way of showing it.” 

And Dean had known. Somehow, the intent had been enough.

“Yeah, I know, Dad.”

There was a pause, and John shifted slightly and cleared his throat. Dean knew he was about to say something significant, so he waited.

“You know, when you were a kid—every night when she tucked you in for bed, your mom would tell you angels were watching over you.” He smiled softly at the memory, and Dean smiled, too, but for a different reason.

There had been plenty of angels that watched over him in his life, but Cas was the only one of them that ever watched _out_ for him. The thought caused a swell of affection in his chest.

“Yeah, I remember.” 

“Guess what I’m trying to say is, if—if he makes you happy—,” he said, nodding vaguely towards the hallway towards the dorms, where Cas was still sound asleep, “then I’m not gonna try and stop you. Not exactly how I thought it’d go for you, but if this is what you want—.”

“He is.”

Another pause. And then, “Okay. Then, I wanna get to know him. Jack, too. For real this time. Maybe they’ll even prove me wrong.” He looked to the side, and Dean realized he was staring at the candle on the table. “While I still got time to be proved wrong.”

Dean stomach churned, forming a pit in the center of it, as he remembered why he’d come into the library in the first place. They were only starting to be a family again. It couldn’t end so soon. 

He leaned into the table, folding his arms under him. “Yeah, about that,” he said, regaining John’s attention. “Me and Sam have been looking for a way to get around the spell. To keep you alive. You know—for good.” 

John’s expression remained neutral, like he wasn’t expecting much. “Yeah? You find anything?” 

The answer was no, but Dean didn’t want to give up hope that easily. They’d find something. “Well. Found a few things that might work.”

John appeared resigned, if not a little saddened. “And how many people would have to die to keep me breathing?” 

Dean didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. 

“Things like these, they usually come with a hell of a price. I’m not letting you or some innocent person take the fall for me.”

“Yeah, but—,” Dean started, not really knowing how he was going to follow that up. 

He never found out, because John interrupted, “You think I didn’t try finding a way to bring your mother back? To keep her back? I checked under every stone. Now, I didn’t have the resources you do, but I know a wild goose chase when I see one. There’s nothing to be found.”

Dean didn’t want to believe that. There had to be something. What good was having access to the biggest library of all things freaky if they couldn’t use it to save their father?

“This family needs you, Dad,” he said, almost pleading. They’d just found a way to fit John back into their lives. Dean wasn’t ready to let that go.

John only gave him sad eyes, and maybe there was a hint of pride in them, too. He said, “No, you don’t, Dean. That’s you. You’ve always been the one to hold this family together, not me. Long as they have you, they’ll be okay.”

Dean didn’t know if that was true. He swallowed, looked away. Part of him wanted it to be true—to be needed, fundamental. Part of him hoped it wasn’t, when he thought about his time with Michael, and how easily he’d tried to say yes again. He hoped they could all go on without him if they needed to, and not fall apart like he would without them. Without people to take care of.

He’d been thrown into that role so many years ago, and sometimes he resented the responsibility. But it was all he knew. He’d gotten used to defining himself by who he was to other people.

“I don’t want to leave you boys and your mother,” John went on earnestly. “God knows I don’t. But I also don’t wanna waste the time we do have chasing down leads that won’t pan out. No use in that. You were right, Dean. We should take this opportunity to be a family—to be happy, even if it’s for a couple days. That’s what I wanna do, and I mean that. So, don’t go looking for some spell and then beat yourself up when you don’t find it. That won’t do any good.” 

He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t just smile and pretend everything was all right when, in a few days, it’d all be taken away again. He had to do something. And maybe he wouldn’t find a way. Maybe he would blame himself for it later. But he’d feel worse if he did nothing. He had to try.

“That’s not a decision,” John said, giving a half-grin. “Just a friendly suggestion.”

Dean’s twitched his lip upwards, trying to put his best brave face forward.

“So, what do you say, Dean?” John asked. “Ready to give your old man one last shot at being a dad?”

It didn’t take much thought. “Yeah, Dad. That’d be good.”

Not long after that, they turned in for bed again. Dean thought maybe sleep was worth another shot before the sun rose. He could still get a couple of hours in. They said goodnight, John’s expression a lot less drawn than it had been earlier and Dean feeling a lot better than he had before, and went off to their separate rooms. 

Cas was still asleep, and Dean took a second just to look at him—unguarded, unafraid, vulnerable, every line of him softened. It was a rare sight, and he thought it was a good one. He committed it to memory. 

When he crawled back into bed, Cas shuffled a little. He blinked his eyes half-open and looked over his shoulder. “Dean?”

“Shh, it’s okay,” Dean whispered. “Go back to sleep. I gotcha.” He fit his chest against Cas’ spine and bent his knees to slot in along the line of his legs. He wrapped his arm around Cas’ chest, one hand resting on his heart.

Cas grunted a little and blanketed his palm over Dean’s, and kept it there. He was asleep again in a couple of seconds.

Dean could feel Cas’ human heart beating against his ribs, and realized he could keep time by it. And then he thought about his parents, who had only a few years together, and wondered how much time he’d get with Cas. Maybe Cas was right—maybe they’d spend eternity together. Maybe, after Dean died for good, Cas would somehow find his way back into Heaven. Maybe he’d join Dean in his own private paradise, and they could be together, just like this, always.

He hoped so.

But for now, he felt the steady drum of Cas’ heartbeat on his palm and listened to him sleep. He prayed, _MONONS MALPRIG. My heart_. And he hoped it somehow got into Cas’ dreams. 

He pressed his lips to Cas’ shoulder through his t-shirt, and kept them there until he drifted off.

 

///

 

Castiel didn't know what had changed, but John's treatment towards him and Jack shifted over the next few days.  It started small: John grabbing a beer for Castiel before the five of them sat down to watch a baseball game, and explaining to Jack why the Cubs were superior to the Cardinals; or asking for Castiel's assistance when he became determined to fix the leak in the shower that Dean had been putting off doing; or telling Dean to let Jack have the last slice of pie after dinner.

The gestures became grander as the days went on, and as the flame tied to John's life force shrunk.  The Winchesters appeared determined to spend time as a family, and John did not refuse Castiel and Jack from coming along.  They drove to Wichita to attend a screening of the original Jurassic Park at a local movie theater.  They took care of a haunting outside of Kansas City.  They played poker at home and billiards at a nearby bar that Dean frequented; and John even challenged Castiel to a game of darts that Castiel decided to let him win.  And, if Castiel sometimes caught John looking at him with apprehension, he tried not to take it to heart.

Because John was trying.  For Dean's sake.  Castiel would do the same.

Things settled into a strange kind of normalcy, born of an attempt to cram in as many activities that the clock would allow them.  There was a sense of urgency, a rush that the Winchesters tried so desperately to slow down.  Castiel felt it in the late nights and early mornings, in the long drives, in the silence between conversations.  He felt it especially on the night Mary and John went out alone for dinner, and Castiel found himself glancing at the candle’s flame, and mourning how low it had become. 

They hadn’t known it when they’d woken up that morning, but the candle’s flame was only a bulb around the blackened wick, resembling the moment the cotton first catches fire from the match, before it erupts in oranges and blues. Perhaps, if Dean had known that, he wouldn’t have been so complacent. He wouldn’t have allowed them to spend so long in bed, kissing and touching and moving against each other.

He wouldn’t have let them breathe in each other’s scents or taste salty-sweet skin. His hands wouldn’t have fumbled through Castiel’s hair, and he wouldn’t have panted into the crook of Castiel’s neck. He wouldn’t have let Castiel rock into him, or hook his elbow over Castiel’s neck to pull him downwards and kiss him sloppily as he met him with thrusts of his own.

And Castiel might not have known that sex was different with depleted grace. It was more tactile, but no less vivid. True, he could not see Dean’s soul shining through, swirling bright around him in arcs and dips of color. And he missed it, wanted to find it. He grabbed Dean by the hip, pads of his fingers sinking into the skin, for purchase as he rutted deeper into him. He still couldn’t see Dean’s soul, but this was nice, too—less distracting, he found, from experiencing his own body’s responses. 

He remembered having sex as a human, how physical it had felt. At the time, he recalled thinking he understood why Dean liked it so much. It was much the same now, only different, because now he was the one making Dean feel good, and Dean was doing the same to him. He preferred it this way.

And he preferred the noises Dean made to almost anything else—the way his breath hitched, the way he held it in each time Castiel shifted his hips to a different angle, and how he let it out again in huffs and choked grunts. The way he laughed whenever their eyes met.

When it was over, Dean kept Castiel on top of him, their chests pressed together and their legs tangled, as they kissed, slow and sensual. His bottom lip caught beneath Castiel’s, and Castiel could feel the velvety drag of it against his chin. Dean’s mouth was swollen and slick and his cheeks were scratchy with morning stubble, but Castiel still nipped at him, unable to get enough.

Dean hummed, and said, “Mornin’.” It was the first word either of them had spoken so far.

“Good morning, Dean,” Castiel responded, and mouthed at the scar on his chin.

He felt Dean’s heated palms smoothing up and down his spine, from the dip in his lower back up to the sharp protrusions of his shoulder blades and back down again. Castiel let his eyes flutter half-open as they kissed, to watch Dean in the close proximity—the crescents of eyelashes swept against his cheeks, the constellation of freckles, the lines around his eyes, the tensing and relaxing of his brow. He closed his eyes again and sighed into Dean’s mouth.

By the time Dean readjusted his position beneath him, Castiel was already half-hard again and twitching with interest. Dean lifted his hips to roll against him, and Castiel reflexively chased the motion with languid circles. Castiel framed Dean’s jaw in his hands and deepened the kiss, and soon Dean was making aborted, whining sounds from somewhere in his throat. The noises made heat flood throughout him, made him dizzy with need, with want. He pressed down harder against Dean, and Dean gasped out and tore his lips away to drink in air. His one hand latched on tight to Castiel’s side; his other reached between them and wrapped them both in his broad fist. Castiel choked something out as sparks flew inside of him.

Dean jerked both of them in swift, smooth strokes, his breath coming out choppy. Castiel was certain his was much the same; it was hard to find the air. He gritted his teeth against the tension building inside of him, thrumming on the inside of his thighs and curling in his toes. He buried his face into Dean’s shoulder, fingers moving to clutch Dean’s hair. Dean’s free palm was on the back on his head at once, holding him in place. Castiel arched his shoulders, feeling white-hot electricity crackle through his unseen wings, feeling his muscles shift beneath his skin.

“Dean,” Castiel heard himself growl out. He moved in and out of Dean’s touch, feeling the friction of his fingers and his cock against Castiel’s own, the drag of tender skin.

“Damn it,” Dean muttered into his hair. “I gotcha, Cas. Come on.”

Castiel raised his head to look down at him again, taking in Dean’s blown out irises and red, sleek skin. He took him into another kiss, more heated and greedy that before. He peppered in words in between them—in English, in Latin, and Greek and Arabic.

Human words were so limited. But, then again, there was no word for love in Enochian—at least, not for the way Castiel loved Dean. Perhaps the language of the angels, too, had its limits. 

“Cas,” Dean breathed back, hips mouth hanging open as he sucked in air, eyes unblinking as he met Castiel’s gaze. 

There was a knock at the door.

“ _Shit_ ,” Dean hissed, taking his hand out from between them immediately. Castiel gasped in frustration at the sudden loss of contact. He wasn’t done yet.

“Hey, Dean? You in there?” John voice came, muffled from the door, and Castiel didn’t _care_. Needing more friction, he pressed down hard against Dean. 

Dean fought back a whine, cursed again, and tried to catch his breath before calling, “Yeah?” If he was attempting to sound normal, he failed miserably. Trying again, he said, “Yeah, what’s up?” 

Castiel wanted to keep Dean’s voice ragged and gruff, wanted to keep him moving beneath him. He replaced Dean’s hand with his own, pressing them together and wrapping his fingers along both of their lengths. He moved his arm up and down, teasing.

Dean gulped, his head falling back onto the mattress and he tried to rein himself in.

“We’re headed out back for some target practice. Thought you’d wanna come,” John said, and Dean was probably very grateful they’d locked the door the night before.

Castiel leaned in close to his ear. “I’d love for you to come, Dean,” he whispered. When he lifted himself back up, Dean’s eyes were in haze and his mouth was O-shaped as he tried his hardest to control his breathing.

“Dean?”

“Yeah!” Dean almost squealed, coming back to himself. “Uh—yeah. Go on ahead. I’ll be right there.”

“Okay.” And then, “Hey, Cas in there? I haven’t seen him all morning.” 

Dean’s eyes went wide, and Castiel had half a mind to announce his presence. Before he could, Dean clapped a hand to his mouth.

“Nope!” Dean nearly yelped. 

“Alright, well, you see him before I do, tell him to come, too, would ya?”

Castiel raised an eyebrow down at him.

“Uh-huh. Yeah—I—,” he bit down hard on his lower lip, and Castiel felt a moan rising in his own throat. “Will do!”

He waited until John’s footsteps stopped echoing before removing his hand and glaring at Castiel. “You dick.” With a rush, he flipped them over, making Castiel lose his grip. “I’m gonna make you pay for that.” 

Apparently, his meaning for retribution wasn’t strictly its true definition. Castiel puffed out a small laugh as Dean disappeared under the covers, and that laugh was very quickly replaced by the moan that he could no longer hold in.

Dean hooked Castiel’s legs over his shoulders and nibbled at the soft insides of his thighs. His fingers were splayed on Castiel’s hipbones, holding him firmly in place. Castiel could feel the way his knuckles moved each time he adjusted his grip. His dick nudged against Dean’s nose and cheek as Dean moved up to mouth at his balls, and Castiel’s arm flew up over his head so he could grip the headboard behind him. 

He felt Dean teasing the sensitive skin with the tip of his tongue before blowing out warm air. And Castiel ached. He throbbed with need, burned to feel Dean’s lips around him.

“Damn it, Dean,” he gritted out when Dean nuzzled his face back into Castiel’s leg. Castiel could feel him grinning wickedly against his skin. “ _Dean_.”

Dean crawled back up out of the covers, mischief still on his face. “Yeah? You say something?”

“No! No, Dean,” Castiel argued, putting his hand on Dean’s face, smooshing his nose, and pushing him back downwards.

Dean resisted, and laughed. “What? Thought you were calling me?”

“You’re not done,” Castiel told him pointedly. 

“Alright, alright— _yeesh_. Blaming a guy for checkin’ up on him.” He slid back down Castiel’s body, and shocked him by his sudden lack of hesitation. Castiel yelled out as Dean took him into his mouth, his lips smooth and hot around him. He dragged them back down again and laved his tongue against the tip. He darted and prodded, and laid it flat to lick a stripe up the underside of Castiel’s cock.

By the time he wrapped his hand around the base and pushed back onto him, Castiel was gripping hard on the bed sheet. He barely heard the fabric as it ripped with a sharp, sickly sound. Dean bobbed his head up and down, timing the movements to each time he alternated between sucking and blowing. His breath was warm around Castiel, and his tongue soft as it pressed against him.

Castiel muttered out his name and started rocking into him again, pushing himself further into Dean’s throat until he felt the velvet smooth flesh at the back of it. Dean responded by working his jaw and swallowing.

He felt pressure rising up and sinking down within him, converging down low. He dug his heels into Dean’s shoulder blades, trying to hang on a little longer. But his thoughts were incoherent, and his words weren’t much better when he tried to speak them.

But Dean seemed to understand when he gasped out, “Dean, I’m—.” 

Dean hummed in acknowledgement before giving a long pull, the combination of those things caused Castiel to come undone. Dean pulled off as Castiel came, spilling out onto his neck and chest. He felt a sudden wave of grace spike up inside of him, unleashed and uncontrolled, and the bulb in the lamp sparked and shattered.

Then, his muscles relaxed, lethargic, and exhaustion settled in. He closed his eyes, catching his breath, letting the aftershocks overwhelm him.

Dean appeared from under the blankets once more, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His hair was sticking up in all directions, fluffed by the covers, and he was smiling in a smug kind of way. Castiel touched his hand to Dean’s neck, unconcerned about the tacky mess cooling on his skin.

“Guess somebody’s getting his mojo back,” Dean said, half-glancing at the lamp, and Castiel saw a hint of Dean’s soul flash behind his eyes.

“You’re so beautiful,” Castiel told him sincerely, dreamlike. Dean flushed.

“Bet you say that to all the girls,” he joked, and pressed their lips together. Castiel felt the hard line of him pressing into his hip.

“Now, c’mon,” Dean said suddenly. “Batter up. My turn.”

One corner of Castiel’s mouth pushed up in an eager, interested grin. He grabbed Dean by the back of the neck and crashed their mouths back together, happy to indulge him.

He slotted his leg between Dean’s thighs and slowly moved it up and down, rubbing against him. Dean choked out a sound and folded himself into Castiel’s chest. He worked his hips to meet Castiel’s touch. 

Castiel watched him raptly as Dean began to unravel.

“Cas,” he said, voice rough again. “Say something, man. Talk to me.”

Castiel pulled his forehead into a frown. “Say what?”

Dean hummed, shook his head. “I dunno. Somethin’. Anythin’. Wanna hear your voice.”

Castiel was at a loss, so he said the first thing that came to mind. He launched into a string of Enochian. As he spoke, low and monotonous, Dean shivered against him, thrusting harder into him as he rode Castiel’s leg.

“Yeah, Cas. Fuck. Keep talkin’.” 

Castiel mouthed the words into Dean’s neck, and against his mouth. Dean’s brow was furrowed in deep concentration.

Then, Dean shuddered against him, and his movements slowed, still pressing in to chase the last bits of bliss. Castiel stopped speaking.

After he recovered, he kissed the corner of Castiel’s mouth. “What were you talking about, anyway?” he asked, curious.

“They were Enochian instructions on ensuring the domestication of sheep,” Castiel told him. “In the beginning, the animals needed a bit of convincing before submitting to a shepherd’s flock.”

Dean stilled, pulled back, and looked at Castiel like he was insane. And for a second, Castiel thought he’d done something wrong; but then a grin erupted onto Dean’s face, and he threw his head back in laughter.

Pride and affection bloomed inside of Castiel as his eyes drank Dean in, and he was smiling, too, even though he didn’t understand what was so funny.

 

///

 

It was only after they finally emerged, washed and dressed, that they knew it was John's final day. And whatever euphoria they felt went stale.

No one acknowledged it, save for maybe the hug Dean and John shared, holding on too long to be casual, when they joined the group outside.  But there was a pressed air about all four Winchesters, shouts clamoring in their throats, silence screaming.  Castiel saw it in the looks Sam and Dean kept sharing, the silent conversations that expressed something he couldn't determine.  He saw it in the way Mary's fingers fidgeted with her wedding band, and in the way John carried himself, too determined, shoulders set as if they were pulled together with weights.  But no one said anything aloud.  They pretended it was another ordinary day, and the thought of it being anything else seemed almost unreal to Castiel after a while.  Like a dream.

The woods in back on the bunker stretched on for miles, the acres around them barren and unpopulated thanks to the power plant built over their heads.  John had set up old beer cans on a fallen tree, and was teaching Jack to shoot, despite the range they had in the bunker.  He said he preferred this way, in the dirt and wind with squawking birds in the distance, because the things they hunted would never be in a sterile room with bullet proof glass and protective goggles.  He said it was important for Jack to know that, to learn under the proper conditions.  It was the same way Sam and Dean had learned. 

A bang cracked through the forest, echoing back along the gray tree trunks and dead leaves.  The can Jack had been aiming for rocked slightly as the bullet whooshed past it.  He dropped his arms in a frustrated sigh.

"That's good," Sam encouraged.  "You were closer that time.  Just relax."  He was standing near Jack, his pistol hanging loosely in his hand, and it might as well have been an extension of himself.

Castiel sat on a stump a few feet behind them, watching.  He could feel the damp chill running through the air, numbing his fingers and making his bones feel brittle.  Dean sat between his knees on the ground, elbow propped up on Castiel’s leg as he clicked through website after website on his phone.  Castiel knew he was still looking for a way to keep John alive, even at the eleventh hour, even though it was impossible.  Dean would not give up.  It wasn't in him to do so.  Castiel did not try to stop him, considering Dean had proved his certainty of the impossible wrong before.  He just prayed Dean wouldn't break his own heart in the process.

He started to mindlessly play with Dean's hair to get the blood running through his fingers again, and Dean half-looked up at him to offer a tight smile before returning his attention to his phone.  Castiel was glad he could provide at least some comfort.

Nearby, on a tartan blanket spread across the fallen leaves, Mary poured herself another cup of coffee out of the tin.

"Not close enough," Jack said, irritated and despondent.  "I don't understand why I'm so terrible at this." 

Sam opened his mouth to say something encouraging, but John spoke first.  "Just need some practice, is all," he said with an easy smile.  "Come on, one more time.  Look alive." 

Jack didn't seem too happy about it, but he raised his weapon again and pointed it steady. 

"No," John told him, stepping in close.  "Do like this, son."  He lifted Jack's elbow up marginally, and pulled out his arms so they weren't coiled so tightly.  "Here, watch me and Sam.  Sammy?"

The two men got into position, and Jack eyed them both studiously.  He fixed his legs to mirror their stance.  Two shots went off, a step out of sync, and two beer cans were flung backwards.

"Try like that." 

Jack took a breath, steadying himself.  He fired.  The bullet didn't hit its mark dead on, but it grazed the metal and caused the can to tip over.

The noise didn't die down after that.  Mary let out a whooping sound and clapped her palm against her mug.  Sam gave a laugh of excitement, and Jack jumped up energetically. 

"I did it!  Sam, I did it!" he said, animated, waving the forgotten gun around carelessly as he flung his arms.

"Okay, alright.  Easy, now," John said, eyes twinkling, as he grabbed Jack lightly by the wrist and lifted the gun from him for safe keeping. 

Jack spun around, a closed mouth smile dimpling his cheeks.  "Castiel, Dean, did you see?  I did it!"

Castiel returned his smile with a soft one of his own, and nodded.  Pride bloomed in his chest, even if he didn't particularly like Jack handling guns.

"Yeah, yeah, good going, kid," Dean said, trying to not sound distracted.  His voice fell a little flat.

"Okay, now do it again," John said, pressing the gun back into Jack's palm.  Jack was more confident now as he turned back to the cans.  John put his hand on Jack's shoulder, leaning in and coaching him.

It reminded Castiel so much of Dean, who so rarely used his words to show his love and devotion.  John expressed it through action, through doing, through sacrifice, through little touches and stares. By working on the Impala with Dean; by organizing the archives with Sam; by pressing his lips to Mary’s hairline and rubbing her arm quickly when she passed by. By teaching Jack how to handle a gun.

Dean had inherited that way of caring from his father, so it was easy, Castiel found, to read John's emotions now that he was really looking.  He may not have picked up on them were this a few years ago; and it was no wonder he'd taken so long to realize how Dean had felt about him, what all those lingering touches and gazes meant.  To realize what Dean was trying to silently say, what he’d been saying for years. Almost as long as it had taken Dean to use his words.

He saw them now, as clear as anything.  Dean wore his emotions the same as he did the tattered jacket pressed against Castiel's leg.

And now, his expression was drawn, weary.  Castiel wished he could help, to stay off the pain that was fast coming.  To have Dean enjoy what hours he had left with his father. 

Dean tipped his head back on Castiel's lap to look up at him, annoyed, as if he could feel Castiel's eyes on him.  "What?" 

"Nothing," Castiel told him, racking his fingers through his hair from the front to the back. “Your father is a good man.”  Dean softened somewhat at that.  He looked forward again and pocketed his phone to watch what was going on.  After some time, he tilted his temple to rest on Castiel thigh. 

They stayed outside for a few more hours, until they decided it was time for lunch. John and Mary went ahead, arms around each other’s waists as they walked, bumping into each other slowly. Jack found a long stick that had fallen from a tree and wacked it against the trunks as he followed them. Sam busied himself collecting the cans from behind the tree trunk, and Dean zipped up the duffle full of their guns.

“Sam,” he said, hushed, after checking over his shoulder to make sure the others were at a far enough distance. He flung the duffle across his back as he straightened out. “You hear back from Max Banes yet?”

Sam pulled his lips into a line, and Castiel knew he only had bad news to share. Dean did, too. He sighed, “Damn it.” 

“Same as when I called him a few days ago,” Sam said. He shoved the last beer bottle into his backpack and joined them. “He didn’t know of anything to help, but he said he’d keep an eye out.”

“We don’t have time for him to keep an eye out,” Dean huffed irritably. He was angry. He was sad.

“I know,” Sam said, taking Dean’s attitude in stride. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second too long to be considered a blink, and let out a long breath through his nose. “This sucks, Dean,” he said, downhearted.

Dean didn’t have a word in response, and Castiel wasn’t certain there could ever be one suitable. So, Sam adjusted the strap of his backpack and, head hanging, walked back to the bunker.

Castiel watched him go, eyes big and baleful. He did not wish to see his friends like this.

Dean lingered momentarily, lost in thought, but he seemed to shake himself out of it and moved to follow Sam. Castiel caught him by the arm, making him whip back around. 

“Jesus, Cas, _what_?” he growled.

Castiel withdrew his hand, not meaning to upset him. He pushed his emotions into his eyes, trying to convey them appropriately. “Dean, about your father. I’m sorry. I . . . If there’s anything I can do . . .” 

He briefly thought of the angels, of Naomi. Maybe she would know of a way to keep John alive. But no, these were just forlorn thoughts. Castiel knew Heaven would hold no answer; it would only promise to keep John Winchester’s soul in tact for the rest of time.

Dean’s eyes flickered downwards, and then back up again, and the anger on his face dwindled into what it truly was. “There isn’t,” he said, not doing so to make Castiel feel worthless. It was a simple fact. “Truth is, I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do.”

His lips twisted into a bitter smile as he tried to accept his own words, but it only lasted momentarily. His arms still hanging on his sides, he leaned in and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to Castiel’s mouth. Castiel barely had time to close his eyes into it before Dean pulled away again and started towards the bunker.

The rest of the day simultaneously dragged, gripped by dread of the inevitable, and passed by too quickly despite the lack of activity compared to the others. Castiel had expected them to spend the afternoon squeezing in one last item on the Winchesters’ family outing bucket list, but no such thing happened. In fact, it was as if they’d run out of ideas—or had too many of them and didn’t know which to pick. Whatever it might be would feel too final.

They silently opted to do nothing, making the day shockingly domestic. They watched a couple of movies together, all of them quick, contained stories without sequels or the question of what might happen next in the knowledge that John hadn’t the time to find out the answer. Dean cooked dinner—meatloaf and mashed potatoes—and they ate in relative silence. Whenever anyone did speak, it sounded like a foreign intrusion. 

It was late when the candle on the library’s table began to puff out a spiral of gray-black smoke, curling upwards and dissipating before it reached the lights on the ceiling.

John was the first to say anything. When he did, it was a simple, “Okay.” There was a finality to it, an acceptance, and a reluctance—like when Dean had finally mustered enough willpower to drag himself away from Castiel’s arms and out of bed each morning.

He turned back to the group standing around the library, his eyes misty and his smile forced. And Castiel didn’t know what to do with himself. His hands hung uselessly at his sides. His voice was trapped in his throat. 

Sam took in a deep, rattling breath, eyes wet. “Dad, there’s gotta be a way,” he said, low and scratchy with emotion.

“No, Sammy, there doesn’t have to be,” John told him before pulling him into a firm, lingering hug. He clapped him on the back gently when the embrace inevitably broke and moved on to Dean. Dean’s eyes were closed and his expression was set with determination, but he was betrayed by how tightly he held onto his father.

When John stepped back, he said to them, “Now, you two keep fighting, alright? You fight for your family—and for each other. You hear me?”

Sam and Dean nodded. “Yes, sir.” 

John’s eyes lingered on them, and softened. “I’m so proud of you boys.” 

They didn’t stop looking at him, eyes scanning him as if committing his visage to memory, as he moved over to Jack. 

“Remember what I taught you—watch your footwork, and remember to breathe,” he said, putting his hands on either of Jack’s shoulders. Jack’s eyes were big and bright and sad as they looked him full in the face; he nodded to show he understood. “Stick with these guys. They’ll show you the way.” 

“I will,” Jack promised him like it was the single most important thing in the world.

Next, John was standing in front of Castiel, and the urgency buzzing on Castiel’s skin hummed even more rapidly. If there was something he could do, something he could say, something he could give, to keep the Winchesters from enduring this loss, he would.

“Well,” John said, trying for an easy grin as he looked Castiel up and down. It wasn’t as judgmental as it had been days ago, just appraising. Castiel found it was more comfortable. “You keep watching out for them, okay?”

“Of course,” Castiel told him.

“And, you ever find your way back upstairs, come find me, would ya? Tell me how everybody’s doing down here.”

Castiel didn’t know when that might be, or if it would ever be. But he’d learned not to say such things. He only nodded.

And he was at a loss as to what to do next. Shake John’s hand? Hug him? It was uncharted territory. But, after a beat, John clapped his hand to Castiel’s shoulder and shook him gently. “Good man,” he said, and Castiel felt something in his chest burst when John’s hand slipped away.

When he turned to Mary, Castiel couldn’t see his face, but he saw hers. There were tear tracks on her cheeks, and her nose was red. She exhaled a choppy breath that made her shoulders shiver, as if she’d been holding it in her lungs until the moment they locked eyes.

“John,” she choked, and he enveloped her in his arms. They clung to each other as if they could stay that way, if only they held on tight enough.

Sam looked away, but whether it was to give them or himself privacy, Castiel didn’t know. Dean kept his eyes on them, and Castiel saw a tear fall off his cheek and careen to the tile, and _it’s not fair_. It was such a human thought. To believe anyone was owed anything. To believe their existence and sentiments mattered more than the grand plan, the universal order. But Castiel wished the Winchesters were an exception. After everything they’d done, shouldn’t they deserve it?

Castiel’s eyes slid to the candle, and found the smoke was no longer dancing off of it. 

John and Mary didn’t say anything to each other; but, when they kissed each other, a white light began to glow off John’s skin. Dean sobbed in a breath. Castiel wished he could tell him something to make it right; but he wasn’t certain what, exactly, there was to say. Instead, he moved towards Dean and stood close to his side. He laced their fingers together, and Dean squeezed back.

The light grew as John pulled away from Mary with one last lingering touch to her arm. It wasn’t long before the brightness became overwhelming. Dean tried to keep looking, kept it up for as long as possible, but then he had to rip his eyes away. Castiel kept his sights forward, and felt his pupils dilating and burning slightly, scratching and watering, against his diminished grace. But it wasn’t unbearable. 

When the light faded, John was gone. And no one said anything for a very long time.

 

///

 

Maybe it harder to say goodbye to someone for a second time than it was for the first.  Dean thought, because he had time to prepare, it'd be easier.  It wasn't, and he hadn't prepared.  In fact, he'd been doing the opposite; doing his damnedest to make sure he wouldn't need to.

The grief was different this time.  When he was younger, the anger and guilt Dean felt over John's death was blazing, white hot and all-consuming.  Erratic.  Irrational.  This time, it settled under his ribs like a cold weight, forming a heavy brick in his stomach that didn't feel exactly like waves of nausea but was subtle and constant enough to make him feel not quite right.  He wouldn't be able to relieve it even if he tried.

But there was the twinge of something else, the bitter beginnings of acceptance.  He didn't know why it was there.  It wasn't because John had told him not to try to save him, because Dean ignored that anyway.  It wasn't because he'd exhausted every option and knew there was nothing he could have done to save his father, because there's always some stone left unturned.

Maybe it was because he was older, and had lost so much.  Maybe it was because he knew how to live without John after so many years.  Or maybe it was something less depressing.  Something normal.

Maybe what he'd told John really had been true.  Things weren't the same as they had been when he was twenty-seven years old.  He wasn't the same.  He was content. 

And maybe it was because, this time around, he said everything he needed to say to John before he died.

Maybe Dean was dealing. 

He sat in the library, feet kicked up on the seat next to him, thumb tapping against the label of his beer bottle.  He hadn't seen much of anybody for a few hours, and the bunker was much too quiet, the kind of stillness that only happened after a night of company.  There was still a certain electricity in the air reminiscent of the people who had left.

Dean pulled his phone out of his pocket and thumbed through the photo album until he reached the picture he'd taken of John.  He was behind the wheel of the Impala, face lax as he watched the road.  The picture was still blurry, and Dean's arm still obstructed the bottom of the image, but the soft, fuzzy lines were enough for Dean to reconstruct the memory in his mind.  The corner of his mouth quirked upwards in a sad kind of smile.  He took another swig of his beer. 

There was a familiar stamping of footsteps in the war room.  Dean knew it was Sam without even turning around.  He put the phone in sleep mode and set it on the table. 

"Hey," Sam said, sounding worn out, as he entered the library.  He fell heavily into the chair opposite Dean. 

"Hey," Dean said back, putting his feet on the floor and shifting to face Sam, elbows on the table.  "How you holdin' up?" 

His voice sounded exhausted and scratchy from lack of use.  It seemed wrong, almost, to break the silence now.

Sam shrugged halfheartedly.  "Good as can be expected, I guess."  And Dean gave a little _huh_ sound of solidarity.  Sam looked up at him with his puppy-dog eyes.  "Dean.  You know we did everything we could, right?" 

He was asking.  He was hoping to assure himself, too.  _Did we do everything we could, Dean?_

Dean dragged his palm down his face and nodded, even if he wasn't sure himself.  "Yeah, maybe."

Sam didn't look overly convinced either, but he squared his jaw.  Maybe he was dealing, too.  Maybe even better than Dean was.

He wondered how Mary was doing.  "You talk to Mom?"

"No," Sam said, and sighed.  "No, she's been kinda MIA.  Figured she'd talk when she needed to."  He splayed his hands out into the air in a hopeless gesture, physically and metaphorically reaching.  "But maybe it was good for her to see him again.  You know, get things off her chest.  Clear the air?"  He narrowed his eyes at Dean, and Dean knew he wasn't just talking about Mary.  "Maybe it was good for all of us." 

The phone on the table attracted Dean's eyes again, but only briefly. 

"Yeah," he agreed, mulling it over.  "It’s weird, ya know?  Ever since I was a kid, I thought he knew everything.  That he would never lead us wrong.  Hell, even now, all the time, I still think— _Dad would know what to do_."  He scoffed.  "I mean, I worshiped him."

Sam looked down, nodded once.

"But—seeing him now?  After everything?  Now that I'm catching up to him in age—and, who knows, maybe one day I'll even be older than he ever got.  Made me realize . . . he was just a _guy_.  You know?  He didn't know what he was doing, just like we don't most of the time." 

Sam didn't say anything, nor did he bring his eyes up.  Sam, who had figured this out years ago—maybe even decades.  Maybe it was something everyone figured out about their parents sooner or later. 

And maybe that was the root of this new sensation soothing the twisting in his gut.  John hadn't been perfect.  Dean wasn't perfect, either.  The world kept on turning.

And they did their part to make sure it wouldn't stop turning. There was a knowledge in that, one that made Dean feel like he could start fresh—do anything, not have to second guess himself due to the daunting shadow of John’s memory looming over him.

But the surety of that, when there'd been a lifetime of so much doubt beforehand, was brand new territory for Dean.  He felt himself scrambling, and unsure of what to do next.  "I don't really know what to do with that," he admitted.  He searched Sam's face, hoping to find the answer.  "I mean—what now?"

Sam appeared thoughtful, knowing what he wanted to say but debating whether to say it.  He must have decided to, because he lifted his head and said, "Maybe now you forgive him."

Dean sat back, hand wrapped around his beer.  He thought he could do that.

 

///

 

Castiel had begun feeling more like himself as his grace rebuilt itself.  He was still sleeping at night, but the hours in which he needed it began to diminish, and he knew when his need stopped completely he would mourn not being able to fall asleep with Dean at night and wake up with him in the morning.  It was a strange thing to prepare for—missing sleep, especially when he generally found it a waste of time when he’d been human.  But that had been before he slept next to Dean.

His appetite was dwindling, too, and he figured he should enjoy food while he still could, before it started tasting like molecules again.  Which is why he found himself walking into the kitchen, not hungry in the slightest but with a mind intent on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  He hadn't expected to find Mary there. 

She was sitting at the table, a beer bottle cradled between her hands.  She didn't bring it to her lips, but instead flicked at the corner of the label that had come unglued with her forefinger.  She was staring into the middle distance, eyes red and make up smeared, and appearing lost in thought.

She startled a little when Castiel walked in.  He immediately felt awkward.  "Sorry, I—I didn't mean to intrude," he muttered, ready to walk back out and forget the pb&j entirely; but Mary beckoned him back. 

"No, Castiel, stay."  She wiped at her eyes and sniffled, and offered a weak but sincere smile.  "I think I could use the company."

He was certain she was just being polite, but on the off-chance she needed someone else's presence, he was happy to oblige.  Although, he wasn't sure what comfort he could offer her.  Perhaps none, or perhaps just being there was enough.  Claire had told him that once, he remembered.  He'd never thought of it like that before. 

He trudged down the steps and further into the kitchen.  "I was going to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich."

She swiveled around to look at him as he got the ingredients from the cabinet and fridge and set them on the counter.  "Hey, that sounds pretty good.  Mind making me one?" 

Company and peanut butter.  He thought he was equipped enough for that.

"Of course."

As he busied himself fixing the sandwiches, Mary said, "You know, when Dean was little, he used to like them cooked on the stove like a grilled cheese."

Castiel scrunched his nose in distaste, imagining a hot, gooey mess of peanut butter sticking to his fingers.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Mary agreed off his look.  "But he loved them."

"I'm certain if Dean were here, he'd defend them."

He put the sandwiches on plates and licked a stray glob of peanut butter off his finger.  He set the knife in the sink, knowing Dean would harass him about it if he didn't.

They continued to discuss their mutual disgust for hot peanut butter sandwiches as they ate.  And, at one point, Mary laughed at something he said. Even though it was short and soft, it was nice to hear, and Castiel felt warm for causing it.

When they were finished, she put the plates in the sink and let out a sigh of finality, a little less shaky than before.  "Well, it's late.  Guess I better get to bed."

He stood up, suddenly feeling urgent.  They'd had a good conversation, but it was small talk, and there had been an underlying strain throughout it.  He squinted at her, and asked what he'd wanted to since he walked into the room: "How are you, Mary?"

She paused for a long while, and then nodded, more to herself than to him.  "Okay," she answered with a shrug, in the wistful, airy tone humans tended to have when they weren't actually okay in the slightest.  And then, "When we first did the spell to bring John back, I knew letting him go again was gonna be hard."  Her eyes began to glisten again, but she blinked it away.  "Didn't know it was gonna be this hard."

Castiel felt for her.  He tried to imagine it—saying goodbye to Dean twice, losing him only to later have the prospect of a future with him within reach—and he considered himself lucky that he couldn't.  However, it seemed words failed him again. He could not express his sympathy to her.  So, he settled on, "I'm sorry."  It sounded weak even to his ears.

She didn't respond to that, but she seemed to appreciate it.  "Goodnight, Castiel," she said, and stood up on her toes to gently kiss his cheek.  When she leaned back, she wiped it away with her thumb skating across his skin, like he'd seen her do to Sam and Dean on occasion.  She still smelled of peanut butter, and Castiel found himself smiling as she left the kitchen.

When he got to Dean's bedroom, Dean was already inside, headphones on and his little pink iPod on his lap. His legs were crossed in front of him as he leaned against the headboard. He lifted one side of the headphones off his ear when he saw Castiel, and the distant tune of a slow ballad came through the speakers.

“Hey,” Dean said, taking off the headphones completely and shaking the chord off his neck and chest. 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said. He shrugged out of his coat and blazer and hung them up in the closet. He supposed there wasn’t any point to it, but regardless he asked, “How are you doing?” 

“Peachy,” Dean said, and Castiel shot him a withering look over his shoulder. Dean dropped his shoulders and answered honestly, “I have no idea, Cas. I’m okay. I guess. Or I will be, I dunno.” 

Castiel grabbed a t-shirt at random and slipped it over his head. He toed off his shoes and folded his trousers before sitting in bed next to Dean.

“I still got Sam and Mom,” Dean went on in a breath. “And Jack. And, you know—,” he licked his lips. “I still got you. That’s worth somethin’, right?”

Castiel wasn’t certain how Dean wanted him to respond to that, so he leaned in and kissed him in lieu of words. Dean’s hands moved up to cradle his jaw, and when the kiss broke, he asked, “Peanut butter? Seriously, _again_?”

Castiel frowned. “I enjoy it.” 

“Yeah, I get that, Cas, but c’mon. Gimme some variety. Mix it up with chocolate or something once in a while.”

Shaking his head and smiling, Castiel said, “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

“You could’a at least brought me some.” 

Castiel kissed him again, feeling the way Dean’s lips were curved upwards, and feeling the moment the grin faded. The kiss was slow, gentle, not a means to an end. Dean tilted his forehead against Castiel’s, panting softly.

“Dean,” Castiel said, because he didn’t know what else to. But Dean seemed to understand what he was trying to convey anyway.

They shuffled beneath the covers and laid back, Dean resting his head on Castiel’s shoulder. The tip of his index finger traced the lines and curves of the graphic on Castiel’s shirt. It tickled, a little, but mostly it was warm and welcomed. The weight of Dean against him was solid, steady. Castiel dragged his knuckles up and down Dean’s arms. 

“Listen, I was thinking,” Dean said, and Castiel could feel the vibrations of his voice. “Ya know, if you ever wanted to change up the duds, you could keep your clothes in here—I mean, not just at night. And, I dunno, if you wanted to move anything else in here.” He shrugged. “If you want.”

Castiel didn’t know what possessions he possibly had to move in with, but heard the meaning behind what Dean said, and giddiness filled him. He kept it in check. “Okay, Dean. I’d like that.”

“Cool.”

After some time, Dean spoke again. “Hey, Cas?” he said, tone earnest, heavy. “I think we’re getting better at this.” 

Castiel didn’t answer. Didn’t have the words to do so. But he didn’t need to find them. It took him a while, but he’d finally realized that, with Dean, perhaps words weren’t always needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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